


The Ghost and Mr. Lannister

by Ill_Tempered_Clavier



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack Crossover, F/M, Slow Burn, Some profanity, There will be fluff, Will update tags as we go, another crackfic nobody asked for, i guess thats what i do, there will be angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-14 23:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 31,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ill_Tempered_Clavier/pseuds/Ill_Tempered_Clavier
Summary: Does what it says on the tin: a J/B retelling of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (film, not TV series).Time period: Modern, not the early 1900’s of the original movie although the dialogue might skew a little old-timey because I like the rhythm, vocabulary, and am trying to stay fairly true to the film.





	1. Declaration of Independence

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of this: much of the dialogue is taken directly from or adapted from the movie. GRRM owns A Song of Ice and Fire/GoT and The Ghost and Mrs. Muir is owned by Phillip Dunne (screenplay) and Josephine Leslie writing as R. A. Dick (novel). I only own the madness of attempting to join these two worlds and stories.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Cersei, and Kevan. Jaime declares his independence.

“Jaime!” His uncle looks genuinely hurt.

Jaime takes a steadying breath, puts on his most confident, pleasant, closed face, the one he generally saves for heads of state interacting with his clients. “It simply won’t work, me living here.”

“Are you serious, Jaime?” Cersei can’t quite believe him and arches an eyebrow at her brother and takes a sip of wine.

“Yes, yes I am.” No fear, no doubt. Not after the pictures Tyrion showed him, anyhow. He briefly allows his eyes to rest on his brother who is quietly sitting in a corner of the room, being as unobtrusive as possible as is Tyrion’s wont in any situation that might result in useful information or juicy gossip. Tyrion has turned being ignored and overlooked into an asset and an art.

“Robert isn’t even a year in his grave. You might have some consideration for my husband’s memory. _For our legacy. For my children._ ” Cersei stresses these last two points quite stringently. 

He looks them both square in the eye, bland and firm. “I don’t see what Robert’s got to do with this: I’m not leaving him, he’s dead and not on my watch. I’m leaving you.” Cersei and Kevan gasp. Tyrion, disregarded in his corner perch, stifles a gasping laugh into his wine goblet.

Kevan pleads, “After all we’ve tried to do for you?”

“You mustn’t think I’m not grateful; you’ve both been so kind to me.” Jaime looks first to Kevan, and then to Cersei, causing his eyes to harden and a facetious smile threatens. “But I’m not really of any use to the family anymore. I’m not a businessman or a politician: I’m a bodyguard. I guarded Robert, but now that both he and my hand are gone, I have my own life to live and you have yours. I’ve never really had a life of my own. It’s been Tywin’s life then Robert’s life. The family’s life. Never my own.” He doesn’t add “Cersei’s life” to the verbal tally, but his eyes meet hers so that she understands her own is also added to the count. He also doesn't talk about losing his hand or the circumstances that surrounded it.

Cersei slams down her wine goblet, spilling nothing because she’s already drank enough to prevent it. She sits up, attempting her best Tywin impression. (Jaime and Kevan choose to ignore that it’s lacking.) “Stop sniveling, Kevan. If he’s determined to make a fool of himself, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Looking from one twin to the other, Kevan has gone white and his hands shake slightly. “Jaime, have you considered Myrcella and Tommen?”

“Yes, Jaime. Have you considered your niece and nephew?” Cersei glares. “Especially after poor Joffrey’s death—just a few weeks after _their father’s_?” Cersei is looking daggers at Jaime…although they aren’t the sleek, deadly throwing knives of the Faceless Men—they’re more like the wobbly jackknives thrown by drunk frat bros after too many keg stands.

“They’re my niece and nephew. If they need me, they’re welcome to visit. Might do them good to get away for a bit especially given the circumstances. Sea air is supposed to be healthy, and kids love the beach.”

“You’re only saying that because you think I’m an unfit mother. Don’t deny it!”

“I don’t deny that I think they might benefit with some time away given your…grief. You’ve lost so much so quickly, sweet sister. You could do with a break.” Jaime takes a breath and appeals to Kevan. “Please, can’t we all discuss this without fighting?”

Kevan still looks distraught and a little panicked. “I don’t know how you’ll manage if you’re no longer a bodyguard in Kings Landing. Tywin won’t give you any money if you leave your family duty.”

“I have income from Robert’s bequest, my personal investments, and I’m a former military man—I’ve learned to live without comforts. I can live quite cheaply with Peck.”

Cersei spins from the bay window she’s been glaring out of. “You can’t tell me you’re taking Peck with you!”

“Well, to be fair, he’s always been my assistant. Seeing as I poached him from my military days.” Jaime also knows that Peck has a girl who will be very happy to relocate soon with Peck and the promise of steady, honest work.

Kevan tries again in his attempts to be reasonable, “But Jaime, where will you go?”

Jaime smiles: it is small but oh so very satisfied and sure: “The seaside, I think. An island. Tarth. I’ve always wanted to live by sapphire blue waters.” He doesn't know exactly why, just that this is true. He pauses, looking first at Tyrion who salutes him with his wine goblet from his corner perch (he’s so been looking forward to witnessing this conversation and it hasn’t disappointed), then Kevan, then lastly Cersei. “Well, that’s it, really.”

Cersei spits, trying for coldness, “Well, apparently there’s nothing we can do about it but when you realize your mistake and try to come crawling back, don’t expect me to welcome you.” She tries to drain her goblet, finds it empty, crashes it down on the table, and storms out, slamming the door behind her.

“I won’t, Cersei,” Jaime says to the closed door.

Kevan looks up at Jaime with near puppy-dog eyes—and who would have thought any brother of Tywin Lannister capable of such a thing? Jaime sighs, gives Kevan a small smile and embrace, and leaves the room. (He’ll debrief with Tyrion later.) He runs into Peck, Myrcella, and Tommen listening at the door. He takes a breath and lets it out.

“Well, it’s done. Peck: please finalize our arrangements. Myrcella, Tommen, you’re welcome to come visit any time, but your mother has to say it’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being intentionally vague about which branch of military service Jaime served in because that is not my area of expertise. I waffled between Robert’s and Tywin’s death as the catalyst, and both are compelling for different reasons. It turned out Robert’s was just a bit easier to make the impetus, but I definitely fudged some continuity.


	2. Interlude the First – The Debrief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Jaime. 
> 
> This is a totally made up scene, but seeing as I plotted this being driven by Robert’s murder because it makes me so sad when Tyrion and Jaime are at odds with each other, I couldn’t have an off-narrative goodbye for these two. Using Tywin’s murder instead presents interesting narrative possibilities, but when first reading the books, Jaime’s love for his brother was the first (and one of his strongest) redeeming qualities and what is fan fiction good for if not indulging our favorite characters?
> 
> This one is short (it _is_ an interlude after all), but the next two drafted chapters are longer.

“You did it! By the Seven, you did it! Fly like a birdie, Jaime. Get the hells out of here and leave this madness behind.” 

Tyrion is so very proud and grateful that his beloved big brother has finally accepted that Cersei is not at all good for him and Jaime is finally doing something about it. He has also drunk quite a lot of very good wine. It’s a way for him to get back at his asshole father: depleting the family cellar one impressive vintage at a time. Verily, this is his task for the ages.

He can’t help feeling a preening sort of petty triumph that Jaime has finally chosen him over his hateful sister. While he’s never really quite understood it for all that he appreciates beautiful women, he’s seen the hold this relationship has had on his brother and he sure as hells has resented that while his sister would full on fuck his brother, but wouldn’t even deign to be remotely caring to him—not even in the smallest, impersonal basic-human-kindness ways. It’s all kinds of messed up, so petty triumph it is and Tyrion isn’t even ashamed. 

“Tyrion…” Jaime starts, but doesn’t know exactly what to say to finish the thought.

_Thanks for breaking my heart by providing proof our sister, my twin and lover of many years, has been cheating on me with every Tom, Dick, and Kettleblack. Thanks for convincing me through highly conclusive but very uncomfortable evidence that my devotion to our sister was completely one-sided, oh, and sorry that I was her apologist for her being such raging, unearned, unrepentant asshole to you all these years. You were right._ "Tyrion, I'm so sorry." 

There really aren’t any adequate words for these things, but thankfully, Tyrion is family. Tyrion loves his brother, and he knows his brother loves him. He knows how messed up the situation is, how both Cersei and Jaime have each failed him differently, but at least Jaime tried a bit. Jaime has tried to protect him as much as possible, right?


	3. It Was the Lease of His Worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Varys, rental agent. Cameo by Peck. Apologies for the title.

“Isn’t Tarth beautiful, Peck?” Jaime breathes looking across the ferry platform. Studying the printed email from the leasing agent again, Jaime strides down the quaint streets and locates the office, smiling as he makes his way through town. The fresh sea air and astonishingly blue waters are doing a wonder for his mood already. “Run along and get the lay of the land. I need to meet with the rental agent.” Peck grins and walks off to explore.

He opens the door, an old-fashioned bell chiming. A man of middle years is daintily eating his lunch. He wipes his hands and mouth with a fine napkin, quickly chewing as he rises to greet his new arrival.

Jaime throws on his most charming hail-fellow-well-met smile knowing exactly what his name means in this circumstance. “Mr. Varys? Yes, of course, you answered my email. Please, continue your lunch. I’m Jaime Lannister.”

“Mr. Lannister! Of course! You wanted to rent a house. I’ve selected several prospects worthy of a man of your name and circumstance.” Jaime can’t blame the agent for the capitalistic gleam in his eye—poor man thinks leasing to a Lannister of the Kings Landing-Casterly Rock Lannisters is going to mean a much more substantial fee. Jaime has a fair amount of money, but he isn’t particularly spendthrift except perhaps when it comes to weapons and body armor…and he’s not in that game anymore, is he? Plus, he's trying to sever himself from his family’s finances, so Jaime is looking to save every copper.

Varys opens the file to show the pictures, floor plans, and other facts about the prospective properties. The first is a stunning property that is much too large and too expensive to justify for a single man, even if he still had the family bank account to draw from. Jaime rejects it for cost, and the agent carefully arranges his face, tactfully putting it in a discard pile. Jaime notices the next property’s paper is as quickly discarded after a dark glance without a word, so Jaime picks it up to take a look because he’s a perverse son of a bitch and curious.

It’s practical. It’s perfectly located. It’s quirky. It seems excessively solid and well-built, not at all fancy. It’s economical. It’s the perfect size should Myrcella and Tommen want to visit.

“This one—Evenfall Hall. It’s exactly the sort of place I’m looking for.” Built on the old foundations with a few of the original walls of ancient noble house’s seat, it stood overlooking the water. While quite rustic, it seems to have enough modern comforts (and the location) to make it feasible, particularly when considering its price. It's almost too good to be true. A little remote, romantic, and cheap: in short, perfect. 

“Oooooh, no, Evenfall Hall wouldn’t suit you at all, Mr. Lannister!” The agent deftly swipes the fact sheet out of Jaime’s hand. “Now, Storm’s Mount: this is a first-class residential—“ 

Jaime takes the sheet back. “But only 1500 pounds! That’s very little for a furnished house of its size and location.”

“It’s a _ridiculous_ price,” Varys allows.

“I suppose there’s something wrong?” Jaime raises his well-manicured eyebrows. “Is it the drains? Or the cell reception?”

Varys gasps, a hand flying to his cravat. “When we put a property up for rent, you can be assured that there is _nothing_ wrong with the drains. We _are_ on an island, so any cell reception issues will be noted in the informational sheet,” he sniffed. And it’s true: the sheet clearly states that both cell reception and internet service are intermittent due to local infrastructure and location. But Jaime knows a Lannister of his means and connections could improve that situation somewhat with proper investment.

“Well, then: why shouldn’t it suit me?”

“Sir, you must allow me to be the judge of that!”

Jaime pins Varys with his most striking gaze—he knows because he’s practiced and cataloged them all in a mirror. He knows how to look pretty but strong and incisive, which is a cocktail potent enough to quell most challengers regardless of orientation. “No. I am quite capable of making such decisions myself. Why not Evenfall Hall?”

“Ahhh…but it’s not suitable. I don’t want to waste your time,” Varys wheedles, clearly not wanting to lose a potential lucrative and influential client.

Jaime wields his sharpest smile. “I will judge what is a waste of my time. I believe there are other property managers in Tarth who also have Evenfall Hall on their list. The internet is a beautiful thing.”

Varys turns to Jaime with a weak smile. “Very well, sir, if you insist, we aim to please. I will take you there directly.” Jaime precedes him out of the shop, and when Varys turns to lock the door, his small smile morphs into one of satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOOOOL my attempt at estimating rental equivalencies across, time, space, and universes. Also, I originally was going to make Mace Tyrell the rental agent as he fits the slight buffoonery of the character in the movie, but then I had an idea about Varys that made it worth reworking the entire chapter. I hope it pays off!


	4. Haunted House Hunters: Westeros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Varys, and a hint of Ghost!Brienne

Varys drives Jaime up the countryside to Evenfall Hall as Jaime’s specially adapted car hasn’t been shipped to the island yet. The scenery is as beautiful as he’s heard—mountains, meadows, even a waterfall—and throughout it all, the constant crash of impossibly blue water on the beach. Jaime gets out of the car and falls in love with Evenfall at first sight: its mix of ancient stone and new construction slapped together. It has a presence. It feels strong and dependable despite its mismatched features. While architecturally it may be an acquired taste, he feels as if he’s come home.

“Mr. Lannister, Storm’s Mount is not that far up the road,” Varys comments.

 Jaime forces himself to turn away from gazing up at the house, and turns a pleasant and implacable face to Varys. “But I want to see the inside.”

“The inside?”

“Yes, of course! What on earth is the matter, man?” Still smiling faintly but now with a touch of bemusement at Varys, Jaime walks to the door and stands aside so the agent can unlock it.

“Very well, if you insist.”

 For all of Varys’s attempts to dissuade Jaime from the property, it is in good condition, simply and comfortably furnished.

“A bit dusty,” Jaime sneezes. 

“Well, it’s been uninhabited for years.” Varys is a little defensive because he can’t tell Jaime about why he can’t keep a cleaning staff for more than a day. He points out the layout, which rooms are where as Jaime looks about, inspecting the pictures on the wall, the furniture. He even sees an honest-to-gods tapestry that would be at home in Casterly Rock it is so old and fine.

Jaime opens a door on his right. The room is dark, but the light from a window perfectly illuminates a rather ugly, powerful looking man in armor, startling him back a step. “Gods, is that a woman?!” He moves into the dark room, inexplicably drawn forward. “Oh, of course: it’s a painting,” Jaime laughs at himself. “What astonishing eyes. I thought for a moment…who is it?”

Varys opens the curtains, washing the room in daylight. “One of the heirs of Tarth who lived in the original hall. Brienne of Tarth. A knight from the time of the War of the Five Kings.”

 “A lady knight from a noble house? That explains the old stonework and theme of decoration.”

“Which is in rather frightful taste,” Varys sniffs.

 “Oh, I don’t agree with you! It’s charming and most of the furniture will do as it is.”

“Mr. Lannister, I must beg you to not be so precipitous. I assure this house will not suit you at all.”  
  
“Oh, but it does. It suits me perfectly.” Jaime turns to look out the window. “What’s with the packed dirt yard?”

“Local historians think it was the training yard, although it doesn’t explain why it hasn’t gone to seed in the hundreds of years since it would have been used as such.” 

“It ruins the view. I’ll have it filled in,” Jaime sniffs…and then shivers. The temperature has definitely dropped at least ten degrees and the air feels closer, denser. He thinks he hears an angry muttering. “…Did you say something, Mr. Varys?”

“No, I did not.”

Jaime shakes off the fleeting odd feeling. “Well, I think I’d better see the rest of it.”

“As you wish, Mr. Lannister.” Varys shows him the kitchen, and Jaime confirms the water works. Then he notices a mess on the table: a half-eaten meal for one—fairly recent—scattered across the tabletop as if the diner was startled away.

“What on earth?”

“What, Mr. Lannister?”

“That table! I thought you said no one had been here,” Jaime frowns.

“I said nothing of the sort,” Varys sniffs. “I said the house had been empty, and it has. A charwoman was here last week.”

“Well, I don’t think much of her cleaning abilities. That’s how you get ants. She must have left in a frightful hurry.”

“That she did.” Varys is looking off into the middle distance trying so hard to keep a blank expression that Jaime can almost feel the man vibrating with the effort.

“Did she tell you why?”

“She told me nothing. She returned the key to the office whilst I was out.”

“Oh.” Curious, that. Seems a bad way for a charwoman to keep up a client base, especially one as lucrative and steady as cleaning for a property manager.

Varys takes a steadying breath and draws himself up as straight as possible. “Mr. Lannister—"

“I know, I know, it won’t suit me. But it does.” Jaime flashes a small, firm smile and progresses out of the kitchen to see the rest of the house. “I’d like to see the upstairs.”

“The upstairs?” Varys tries to hide the disappointment in his tone, but Jaime is already halfway up the rather grand staircase. (Not original, Jaime thinks having experience with such, but not new either; probably an artifact of the family a couple hundred years ago.) The air feels inexplicably denser and cooler on the second floor—heat rises, and as an excellent bodyguard, Jaime is nothing if not observant of environmental characteristics. It’s intriguing.

Varys opens the door at the top of the staircase. “The, um, main bedroom.”

Jaime enters and finds the room charming. The external wall is original stone from the first Evenfall Hall, Jaime is positive. It has an unparalleled view of the remarkably clear, blue waters of Tarth through, what was for the time, quite a large window. Tarth must have been a largely peaceful place even then, he thinks.

A sword and shield hang over a fireplace. He doesn’t recognize the coat of arms on the shield (a tree with a shooting star), although something tugs at the back of his mind—Tyrion used to be quite interested in medieval history when he was younger and Jaime couldn’t help but absorb some of it secondhand. 

That’s interesting enough, but it’s the sword that transfixes him to the spot and takes his breath away. The blade is waves of black and red steel—it looks like Valyrian steel, but here, just hanging on the wall of a house to let? It can’t be. A gold hilt and the pommel is a lion’s head with ruby eyes. The memory of his right hand reflexively curls a bit. It looks strangely familiar. It looks remarkably like a Lannister sword, so what is it doing on Tarth? And what are the chances that he would stumble on such a thing? And while Jaime has felt at times in his life that he’s meant to be somewhere else, with someone else, doing something else, this odd feeling of déjà vu is almost strangling him. There is something missing in his life that cuts him deeper than his sister’s betrayal and being away from the children he can never acknowledge. He nearly cannot breathe past this feeling. 

The air thickens and the temperature drops further, although Varys doesn’t seem to mind. Jaime shakes his head to clear it and tries to make light of this odd feeling. “Of course! A sword and shield to defend the hall!” Varys makes the required nod and smile, humoring him. “But what…? That’s what it is! You’re clean!”

“I _beg_ your pardon, Mr. Lannister?!”

“Not you, Mr. Varys. The sword and shield. Reproductions, I trust?” Then Jaime hears a loud huffing, almost feels it on his neck. “Did you say something, Mr. Varys?” A loud, long exasperated sigh in his ear followed by an angry feminine growl that grows into a roar. No sooner has Jaime decided that yes, he is really hearing these things, Varys locks eyes, alarmed, and runs out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Mr. Varys!” Jaime quickly follows the agent outside, turning to face the house. He takes a considering breath trying to decide just what to say but Varys beats him to it.

“You _would_ come, I didn’t want to show it to you, but oh no, no, you had to see it!” Varys glares daggers at Jaime.

“ _HAUNTED._ Huh. How perfectly fascinating!” And Jaime really is fascinated. A huffy ghost he can deal with—it might be the perfect distraction from dealing with his heartbreak over his sister’s infidelity.

“Fascinating?” Varys is incredulous. “I suppose it’s fascinating, but this house is driving me to drink—to drink! Four times I’ve rented it, and four times the tenants have left after the very first night. The current heir can’t seem to be bothered. I’ve written to him, cabled him, begged him to release me but he only replies, ‘Rely on you.’ Well, I don’t want to be relied on! I never want to see this house again! I wish the former heir had lived to be 100!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Varys.”

“Yes, well, at least you know now why it won’t suit you.”

“Yes, I…” Jaime looks back. The house still seems to call out to him somehow. “I…suppose so.” He’s trying to convince himself, but it’s not working. “Why does…she?...haunt?” Jaime looks to Varys for confirmation, but the man is busy settling his coat and locating his car keys. He doesn’t contradict Jaime, however. “Was she murdered?”

“No, the legend is that she committed suicide,” Varys snipes.

Jaime is inexplicably sad at hearing this—his heart falls to his feet and—what?—he feels tears begin to prick at his eyes. He takes a breath before asking, “I wonder why.”

“To save someone the trouble of someone assassinating her, no doubt.” Varys snipes, afraid that he will have this albatross of a property around his neck for eternity. “Come, we’ll go to Storm’s Mount.”

But Jaime can’t move his feet. No, that’s not quite right because he finds them moving back towards Evenfall Hall, his eyes drawn to the window he realizes is the main bedroom with the sword and shield. He can’t quite name what he feels, only that since arriving here, what he feels is preferable to what he felt beforehand.

“Mr. Lannister? Mr. Lannister, if you please?” Only Mr. Varys doesn’t sound remotely pleased with Jaime.

“You’ll probably think it very silly of me, Mr. Varys, but I have decided to take Evenfall Hall after all.” Varys raises an eyebrow…or what would be an eyebrow if he had one. “I mean, if everyone rushed off at the slightest sound, of course the house gets a bad name but it’s too ridiculous in the current century to believe in apparitions and all the medieval nonsense—the house’s decorations notwithstanding.

“But, but, you heard her roar!”

“I heard what might have been a roar or what might have been the wind down the chimney. And anyhow, I’m a Lannister: I can roar right back.”

“If I may say so, Mr. Lannister: fiddlesticks.”

Enough of this. Jaime pulls out his best Tywin impression. “I want Evenfall Hall.”

Varys is now well past his point of patience, even for a Lannister of the Casterly Rock-Kings Landing Lannisters. “In my opinion, sir, you are the most obstinate man I have ever met.”

“Thank you, Mr. Varys. I’ve always wanted to be considered obstinate: it’s a worthy character trait. Some of my favorite people are obstinate aurochs.” And as Jaime says this, he knows he feels it true to his bones but could not begin to explain why.

“Very well, Mr. Lannister, on the understanding that I disclaim all responsibility for what may happen, you shall have Evenfall Hall. Be it on your hand, I mean, head.”

After he lets Jaime out back in town, Varys is smiling very widely indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I _am_ mostly hand-waiving priceless artifacts like Duncan’s shield and Oathkeeper hanging on the walls of a rental property because (insert jazz hands) super cracky fan fiction! Also, who doesn’t love an Archer reference? Not this lady!
> 
> And no, Brienne did not actually commit suicide, it's just local legend. Probably started a spurned and bitter Hyle Hunt.
> 
> Finally: A GOT _House Hunters_ parody would be pretty funny. If someone wrote it, I would read it!


	5. Cleaning House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Peck, and a looming Ghost!Brienne.
> 
> Maybe the house isn't the only thing that's a bit haunted around here.

Jaime cleans the surfaces in the kitchen while Peck does the floors seeing as it’s easier to manage with two hands. (Jaime had quite enough of scrubbing floors in the military, so feels no compunction assigning this task to Peck, but he’s pride enough to contribute to the cleaning effort.) 

“Don’t you dare come in,” Peck warns the nearly horse-sized Irish wolfhound, Honor, standing in the open kitchen door. “Bringing your muddy feet through the clean kitchen!” Honor cocks his head and runs across the floor into the house anyway. “Knave,” he says only half-heartedly annoyed, finishes, and stands back to survey his work. “There. Nothing like soap and water to make everything as ready for winter as Winterfell.”

“Yes,” Jaime agrees and then pauses. “What did you say, Peck?”

“What did I say?”

“ ‘As ready for winter as Winterfell.’ I’ve never heard you use that expression before.”

“Huh. Must be the medieval atmosphere! Well, Lannister, I’ll take over the cleaning, if you please.”

“But I haven’t finished.”

“You’ve done enough hard work for today. And besides, you’re supposed not to be—” 

“If you’re going to start telling me I’m not strong enough, I’ll pack you back to Kings Landing on the first ferry.” Jaime is doing his damnedest to make people stop treating him like an invalid. How else will he learn to deal with just one hand if people keep trying to do everything for him?

“Good old Kings Landing, how I miss it…or maybe a certain lady,” Peck chuckles. “I know you’re capable, but seeing as you’re now lord of the manor, we can’t have you doing with the help,” he says, tipping Jaime a wink. “Now come along upstairs to your room and a bit of shut-eye before tea, old man.” They’ve been through battle and mind-numbing bodyguard work together, so Peck has earned the ability to tease his former commanding officer.

They climb the staircase. “I feel so useless. I used to be an elite soldier and bodyguard, and here I am nearly halfway through life and what have I done?” It’s not like Jaime to be maudlin, but since losing his dominant hand, sometimes these dark moods take him and Peck has learned how to handle them.

“I know what I’ve done alright: fought in more battles than I’d like to count, cooked enough steaks to choke a grumpkin, and kept the name of Peckledon as fair as the day I found it. Okay, so the last one might be a lie,” he chuckles and Jaime joins him. _Mission accomplished,_ thinks Peck. They both know Peck’s fondness and less than traditional relationship with a certain Pia.

But this makes Jaime think of his own ladylove, and then the black cloud descends on Jaime again. “You’ve led a very useful life, Peck. I have nearly nothing to show for all my years,” Jaime sighs as he opens the door to the master bedroom.

“Huh. I suppose you call your service and your niece and nephew nothing?”

“Oh, heavens, I can’t take any credit for them.” This is truer and more hurtful than even Peck knows. “They just…happened.” This painful secret he has carried so long, it’s smooth as a river rock his soul has tumbled it so often, and nearly as comfortable to hold because it has become so familiar.

“Yes, that’s what my old dad used to say. I was the eleventh,” Peck smirks as they move through the room, Peck putting away clean laundry.

Jaime notices the French door is somehow open and closes it, accidentally pinching his finger. “Fuck,” he mutters.

“You hurt yourself? Here, let’s have a look. Can’t have you losing any more fingers.” Peck has been with him long enough that he can make this kind of joke okay; it normalizes Jaime’s loss of a hand.

“Oh, it’s alright. Just a scrape,” Jaime says. For just a second, he thinks he can feel the ghost of a gentle touch soothing him. “But I am tired. I think I will rest a bit. Being an old man and all.” Peck pats him manfully on the shoulder glad that Jaime is actually taking care of himself for once and at least trying to jest.

Peck turns to address Honor who has curled up on the settee across from the chair Jaime has settled in. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” and tugs the rose and azure afghan out from underneath the dog, handing it to Jaime. “It’s freezing in here. This will keep you warm.”

“Thanks, Peck. You’re a hero.”

“No one’s given me a sword or a quest lately,” he quips back. Jaime’s grateful for Peck’s pragmatic good humor even if he can’t always reciprocate—it was a godsend when he lost his hand. “I’ll call you in plenty of time for dinner,” he says as he shuts the door behind him.

Jaime settles down in the overstuffed wing chair, wrapping the afghan around him and falls asleep almost immediately so he doesn’t see the French door open of its own volition nor notice Honor growl softly at the looming presence of an ugly freckled lady knight in blue armor who can’t seem to tear her eyes away from the sleeping figure. Her face is a thundercloud that gradually dissolves into the softer ones of spring, her sigh a faint zephyr that gently ruffles his hair, causing him to smile in slumber.

Jaime is woken nearly an hour later by the sound of the French door flapping in the wind. He is positive he shut and locked it before Peck left because his finger is still a bit sore. Then he notices the hallway door gently opening, as if by a draft, and his breath catches. Then Peck’s head peeps around the corner, and he lets it out, laughing a little at himself for his foolishness. “Oh, it’s you.”

“I snuck up. I didn’t want to wake you in case you were still asleep. Dinner’s ready.” Peck turns to Honor, “I’ve got a nice bit of fresh fish for you, too.” 

“Peck,” Jaime pauses and nearly doesn’t finish but it’s a testament to Peck’s loyalty and their history that he actually finishes the sentence. “I had the most curious dream.” He gets flashes of being deep underground, his father and sister abandoning him. But there was someone else in dark with him, wasn’t there? The dream fragment slips away. “Did I close the window before I went to sleep?”

“You did, and pinched your finger. Don’t you remember? I made a jape of it. It’s shut now.”

Jaime thinks a little too hard. “Yes. Yes, it is shut now,” he says as he gets up and leaves the room, shutting the hall door behind him for good measure, just missing the flash of lighting that hits the room and lights up the blade of the sword on the wall.


	6. A Ghost Encounter of the Third Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Peck, and Ghost!Brienne
> 
> In which Jaime and Ghost!Brienne finally have it out. Jaime’s weirwood dream makes a cameo.
> 
> “Leman” is an archaic term for a sweetheart; also can also connote a secret lover.

Jaime’s checking the windows and turning off the hall lights when Peck approaches, yawning a little obnoxiously. “Hot water bottle’s on the kitchen table and there’s a kettle on the stove.” The storm outside is howling, and this little old-fashioned, domestic comfort is infinitely more welcome than he would have anticipated.

“Thanks, Peck. Good night.” Jaime heads down to the kitchen to fetch the hot water bottle—the main bedroom does always seem to be quite cold. On his way, however, he finds himself going into the sitting room with the portrait of the lady knight. Her proud but plain face is again illuminated by the storm. He regards it for a moment, unsure why he felt the need to…check in? but then closes the door, back about the business of making sure the house is secure for the night. He smiles at himself for his folly.

Once in the kitchen, he turns to light the stove when the lights go out. Well, it’s an old home in a storm on an island: Jaime’s not much fazed for all it startles him. He tries the light switch again to no avail—not because he expects it to work, more out of force of habit. The window over the sink flies open as another peal of lightning and thunder hits, and he can’t help flinching. He’s surprised at how hard it is to get the window shut and secure, the wind and rain are at such force. 

Still mostly in the dark, he sees a candle in a glass chimney on the table and thank the Smith, matches sit beside it. Power outages must happen quite frequently here. That was not included on Mr. Varys’s fact sheet, although considering the location and age of the property, perhaps it was taken as read.

His first attempt to light the candle is a failure; it looks as if someone blew the match out just before it touched the wick. The room is cold and Jaime is tired. “I know you’re here,” he announces to the empty room. He looks around, nearly expecting to see the lady knight standing behind him. “Did you hear me? I said, ‘I know you’re here.’ ” He pauses. Cants his head and listens. “What’s wrong? Are you afraid to speak up? Do you not have a tongue in your ugly head? Are parlor tricks all you’re good for, to frighten lodgers?” 

Jaime doesn’t know why he’s trying to antagonize a ghost he’s not even sure he believes in but he can’t seem to help himself. 

“Well, I’m not afraid of you. Are you craven? Whoever heard of a cowardly ghost? Now: if the demonstration is over, I’ll thank you not to interfere while I boil some water for my hot water bottle.” 

“Light the candle,” a sonorous, disembodied voice commands. It is prettier than Jaime expected given her portrait. “Go ahead. Light it. I always hated the damned things, but he always insisted so I suppose I’m not surprised.”

Jaime is temporarily taken out of his adrenaline high by this non-sequitur. “Who is ‘he’? “And how can I when you keep blowing them out?”

“Light the candle!” The voice booms and Jaime can do nothing but turn around, fetch the matches, and try again. The candle lights, and after he’s carefully replaced the glass chimney, turns around. The lady knight in armor appears out of the shadows, scowling but drinking in every detail of him. She is so very slightly transparent.

“Well? Some jest about my ugliness or manliness I expect? A jape about my height?” Her brow darkens, “Or my sexual preferences?”

For once in his life, Jaime is speechless and just looks, wide-eyed. He shakes his head and can’t actually quite believe that the ghost does seem to be real. “You’ll…” His mouth goes dry. He can neutralize targets, no problem. But a ghost—an actual, honest to gods ghost—he doesn’t know how to respond. He learns he didn’t really believe until this moment. Clearing his throat, he tries again, “You’ll forgive me if I take a moment to get accustomed to you,” and he sinks onto the chair behind him. Well-positioned chair, that. “You’re—you’re Brienne of Tarth?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t move.

“I’m sorry I called you names—craven and so forth—I didn’t really believe in you or I wouldn’t have. It must have been embarrassing to you.”

Brienne continues to intensely regard him, but now she looks confused. “You worry about embarrassing me?” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “Why?” she demands.

“Wellllllll, I mean because of the way you…died.” Jaime is trying his best to emulate his more diplomatic brother. Again, he’s not quite sure why he cares, but assumes it’s because he really does like the house. 

“The way I _DIED_ , ser?!” Brienne sputters in rage. 

“I mean, because you…” Again, Jaime tries for tact, lowering his eyes and tone. “Committed suicide.”

Brienne turns on Jaime, “What made you think THAT?! Who told you I committed suicide?” She is the most indignant woman in this moment he has ever seen, ghost or not.

“Mr. Varys said the local legend—” 

“Ah, _Varys_ ,” Brienne spits as she peels away and storms off a few paces. “He knows some things, but is a fool about others. They’re all fools. They weren’t there.” 

Then her mood shifts with the lightning and for the first time, Jaime sees her smile. Well, it’s more of a smirk, and it looks so familiar to him. Everything about this woman is inexplicably familiar, but the self-effacing grin she wears is familiar because he realizes it’s his own, just on a different face. 

“It was a fever brought from refugees. After all the fevers I suffered from my many battle wounds, after surviving Winter and the Battle of the Long Night and the Others and political machinations and Daenerys Targaryen and any number of failed suitors, I was felled by nursing those who fled to Tarth in the wake of the wars and the winter.” At this she throws her head back, laughing in earnest, a deep belly laugh. It changes her entire aspect. She is still the homeliest woman Jaime has ever seen, but it lights something inside of him and he finds himself smiling.

His own chuckle bubbling up unbidden and she looks at him sideways, fonder than he has any right to expect despite his very pretty face. Then she seems to recollect herself and shakes her head. “That story got started by Ser Hyle. He would keep asking me to marry him, and I, of course, kept refusing him.”

Jaime didn’t know what to make of this, but Brienne continues. “He was a landless hedge knight and I was the unweddable heir to Tarth. He had played me once our youth, but years later, we came upon each other again and he regretted his poor strategy—falsely courting me in the past for a purse instead of earnestly doing so to earn the title and island.” 

Brienne looks at Jaime from the corner of her eyes, a knowing smile tinged with a little sadness. “He followed me later, thinking that he might redeem himself through true service to me and my oath.” She shakes her head, eyes now quite distant. “He soon figured out that I had already given my heart to another, but what he couldn’t guess was that this time, it was requited…although it took us quite a while to admit it. No, Hyle would never have guessed. To be fair, though, none but a minstrel might have, our love was so strange.” Her eyes are sparkling, and she stands in three-quarter profile in the window. The lightning flashes, and in this light, with that soft look on her face, she might almost be a beauty. “Hyle thought after my love died sacrificing himself for me on the battlefield of the Long Night, that I might in time turn to him.”

At this, Brienne turns to Jaime, a level and almost fierce look on her face. “I did not. He was not worthy and I had loved and been loved far too well to forget my leman. But Hunt never stopped thinking that I ought to be grateful for any man’s attention, and that he was owed a lordship for his service. False, unchivalrous fool. He could not sire my legacy, so instead, he sought to destroy it with words.” At this, Brienne turns away to again look out the window at the storm raging outside.

“I’m glad.” Jaime isn’t sure why he says this, but he knows it to be true. 

“You have a strange sense of humor, ser,” Brienne turns back, raising her eyebrow at him. 

“I mean because you didn’t commit suicide! That you didn’t wed that oaf of a hedge knight! But if you didn’t, why do you haunt?”

“Because I failed in my most primal duty: I never provided an heir for Tarth. Evenfall Hall should have gone to my children, not a pack of strangers making themselves at home. By the time my love and I came to an understanding, we were fighting in a war the likes that hasn’t been seen since. There was no time to marry or breed.” Her sad sigh is the mistral tearing through the trees outside in the storm.

“Then you _were_ trying to frighten me away,” Jaime sidles up and gives her a sly smile.

“You call that trying?” Brienne grins back, able to look him in the eye. It ought to be disconcerting for him as she is both taller than him than any woman he has ever met and a ghost to boot, but unbidden, he returns her grin. “I’ve barely started. No, that was enough for all the others. They didn’t want any part of it. Didn’t even stop to set a watch or perimeter, just called a retreat and ran.”

“I think it’s rather dishonorable of you, frightening people. Unworthy, too.”

“In your case, I’ll allow that I enacted my tactics with regret. You remind me of someone I used to know. Especially when you’re asleep.”

“So! You _were_ in my room this afternoon!”

“ _My_ room, ser!”

“I thought I dreamed it.” Another flash of the dream returns: Brienne naked, holding a blazing blade aloft. “Did you open the window to frighten me?”

“I opened the window because I didn’t want you to catch a fever from the stale air and die a stupid, preventable death like I did! Men are such fools.”

“You of all people should not have brought that up, stubborn, foolish woman than you are,” Jaime quips, causing Brienne to turn to him.

“I wouldn’t call that remark in the best of taste. Not that you ever had much of an ability to guard your tongue,” Brienne rolls her eyes, but then quickly hoods her eyes, turning away. 

What does she mean? She doesn’t know him. He recalls his vague feelings of familiarity and discards them nearly before he’s consciously acknowledged them. _They can wait,_ he thinks.

“I’m sure it was very kind of you, but I am _quite_ capable of taking care of myself.” Jaime tries to ignore how much he looks and sounds like a sulky Cersei as he turns away to get the kettle started for his hot water bottle. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he says, dismissing her and going about his business. 

He slyly peeks back at her and Brienne catches him looking. “Well, what’s the matter now?” she demands.

“I just wanted to see if you were really there.”

“Of course I’m really here. And I’ll still be here when you’ve packed up and gone.”

He looks almost petulant and definitely stubborn. “But I’m _not_ going. The house suits me perfectly.”

“Ser, it’s not your house.”

“It is as long as I pay rent.”

Brienne growls, reminding him of his first encounter with her. “Pay rent to my less than satisfactory distant heir, you mean.”

“He’s the legal owner.”

“Legal owner be sent to the Stranger! It’s my house and I want it given to my designated heirs.”

“Then you should have said so in your will.”

“I didn’t leave a will.”

“Why not?” 

“Because I didn’t expect to be taken by the Stranger from a simple fever!” Brienne roars.

“Do not roar at me, my lady. I am a Lannister and can out-roar anyone, dead _or_ alive. Everyone’s been ordering me about my entire life and I’m sick of it, do you hear?” Jaime thunders like the lion of his house’s sigil.

Inexplicably, Brienne laughs at his outburst. “ ‘Hear me roar!’ Well, ser, you’re certainly living up to your house words.”

Jaime is still furious. “I won’t be laughed at either!” he demands and turns cold. “I won’t leave this house. You can’t make me leave it. I won’t!” Jaime isn’t sure why he’s this mix of feeling adamant, hurt, and angry, but he turns away to take a breath and steady himself.

“Calm down. If there’s one thing I can’t stand to see, it’s a Lannister throwing their weight around. Stop it, ser.”

“I love this house. I thought I must stay here the moment I saw it. I can’t explain it; it’s as if the house itself were welcoming me, asking me to rescue it.” And a thought popped into his head, _And I only rescue…_ and then disappeared as quickly as it came. “Rescue it from being so empty. You can’t understand that, can you? I suppose you think I’m just a silly tenant, but that’s the way I feel.”

“Well, there might be some truth in that. I felt that way about a sword once, the finest blade I ever saw. It was entrusted to me to fulfill a debt of honor. It sang so sweetly for me in my hand, sweeter than for anyone else who tried to wield it.” Brienne takes a breath and faces him. 

“Let’s have a truce.”

Brienne looks at him sharply, startled. “You need trust to have a truce,” she nearly whispers.

“I trust you.” And he does. He doesn’t know why, but he feels it in his bones.

She considers. “Well, you love the house: that counts for you.” Jaime nods. “You didn’t frighten like the others: that counts for you, too. You recognized the worth of the sword and shield upstairs: that also counts for you. You may stay. On trial.” 

“Thank you!” Jaime doesn’t know precisely why he feels grateful to have earned Brienne’s trust, but he is and he moves forward, not quite sure exactly what he will do when he comes to her, though.

“But keep your distance, ser!” Brienne deftly dances backward to avoid him.

“I’m sorry. You made me so happy.” Brienne’s normally expressive face goes very blank at this.

She puts on her most dignified, severe looking face. “I’ve no intention of making you happy, I merely want to do what’s best for Tarth and Evenfall Hall.”

“Then we’re agreed. And you’ll leave us be.” He realizes as he says this, he doesn’t actually want her to go away.”

“I will not go away! Why should I?”

“Because my niece and nephew may be visiting! I don’t want them frightened into fits.”

“I have never frightened children into fits.”

“But think of the bad facial expressions they’d learn!” Jaime says with and evil smile. “And the morals!”

“Unless the Lannisters have changed significantly since I last dealt with them, I can only improve their moral education,” Brienne sniffs. “By the Seven, I’ve lived an honorable knight’s life and I’m not ashamed of it. I can assure you that no child has been worse for knowing me and I’d like to know how many dissolute, arrogant Lannisters can say the same.” Well, she’s got his family pegged, he has to admit. Guess along with paying their debts, there are other traits that have been passed down through the generations.

“Well, they’re too young to see ghosts.” At least on this argument, Jaime feels like he’s on firmer ground, and Brienne solemnly nods.

“Very well. I’ll make a bargain with you: leave the sword and shield in the best bedroom as they are and I promise not to appear to the children. Your niece and nephew need not know anything about me.”

“But if I keep them on the wall in the best bedroom, seeing as you clearly care very much about them, won’t you find yourself drawn to where I sleep?” Jaime is giving her his most sinful smile. 

“No. In the best bedroom.” And for the first time, Jaime thinks she’s lying, although the tells are so subtle, he can’t help but wonder if she’s lying to herself, too. “In heaven’s name, ser, why not? I am an honorable knight and a maid and a spirit. I have no body. I haven’t had one in hundreds of years. Is that clear?”

“But I can see you! You stand. Surely I might feel you—” Jaime quickly lunges towards Brienne, curious, but she dodges with alacrity. 

“I am an illusion,” she said heavily. 

“Well, it’s not very convincing, but I suppose it’s alright.”

“Well then, it’s settled. I’m probably making a mistake; I always was a fool for…” she trails off, avoiding his gaze.

“A fool for?” Jaime needles, intrigued.

“You know, your kettle’s about to boil over.” Brienne never thought she might be saved by the want of a hot water bottle.

“So it is,” Jaime turns, trying to hide his curiosity. 

While he’s busy at the stove, Brienne adds, “Oh, and one thing more: I want my painting put in the cellar, the one that’s in the living room.”

“Must I?” He’s feeling rather contrary at this point and he should show this ghost wench who’s the boss. “It’s such a lovely painting.”

“It’s my painting. It’s my house. I didn’t invite your opinion. I want you to put it there now, tonight. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” 

As he finishes with the hot water bottle, he turns around to find Brienne gone. He determines will not be bullied by a ghost. He decides to hang the wench’s painting in the best bedroom with him and the sword and the shield instead.

Jaime puts the hot water bottle on his bed, and goes back down to get the painting, which props against the wall. As he begins to undress in front of the mirror, it almost feels as if the painting is watching him, so he smirks and puts a little more style as he strips and puts on his pajamas. He tumbles into bed feeling rather self-satisfied.

“Incorrigible _and_ a show-off,” Brienne mutters, causing Jaime’s smile to widen against the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story could work with either of as the ghost and lodger, but flipping Jaime, the more confident character as the lodger, and the more reticent Brienne as the ghost as forced me to think a bit more to make it work and discover some things I hadn’t previously thought about with these two, which is fun.


	7. Hard Home Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peck, Jaime, Brienne, followed by Cersei and Kevan.
> 
> In which we find out what exactly happened to Original!Jaime and Brienne. Much is revealed on both sides. Jaime has to make a decision. 
> 
> This slow burn finally accelerates a bit! Thanks each and every one of you readers who are sticking with this—I hope you like this one!

“Well, that’s the last of it.” Peck is putting away more of Jaime’s things. “Never held with moving, myself. I always say we manage to create enough of our own baggage without purposefully adding to it.”

Jaime grins, “Cheer up, Peck! Life isn’t as bad as that.” He’s slept well, but had odd dreams of fighting ice zombies alongside Brienne. He chalks it up to the atmosphere of Evenfall and Brienne’s own history, but he wishes that he’d had both hands in his dream. He usually has both hands in his dreams. 

“Ooh, who said it was as bad as that, Mr. Morose?” he fires back as he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. 

Jaime turns around to find Brienne standing at the window, looking sullen. “Good afternoon, my lady,” he nods. “I dreamed of you.” Brienne gasps ( _Some habits die hard,_ he thinks), a number of different expressions warring on her face. “Are you going to be haunting my slumber as well as my waking hours?” 

She is about to reply when it seems she changes her mind and says something else. “Why did you bring the painting up here? I told you I wanted it in the cellar and out of the way.”

“Where I wouldn’t be able to gaze upon your dour disapproval every day during those times you choose not to grace me with your presence?”

“Seven hells, I thought we had a deal.”

“No, you added that little addendum after we’d struck our deal: I would keep the sword and shield here and you would leave the children alone if they visit. It stays. And I wish you wouldn’t blaspheme, it doesn’t become a virtuous knight.”

Brienne rolls her eyes so hard that if they were real, she’d probably have given herself a headache. “It doesn’t become—” she sputters. “You use worse words than I! It’s a good thing you can’t read my thoughts.”

“No, but I can read your face; it’s an open book. You seem to be rather…earthly for a spirit.”

“You, ser, are enough to make a septa take to blasphemy!” She huffs, “Lannisters,” and stalks away to the other side of the room. “Always making trouble running your mouths.”

“You are very eager to invoke my family name. Lady Brienne, if you insist on haunting me, you might at least be more agreeable about it. After all, you couldn’t ask for a more handsome or charming victim,” he waggles his eyebrows at her.

“Why should I be agreeable? This is my ancestral hearth and home.”

“Well, as long as we’re living—” He looks slightly abashed at his choice of words as he’s not currently trying to provoke but instead to soothe. “—I mean, if we’re to be thrown together so much, life’s too short to be forever angry with each other.”

“Your life may be short, ser, but it seems I have unlimited time at my disposal.”

“There you go, arguing again. Try to say something pleasant for a change.”

“Hm. I see you’re finally unpacked and moping anymore. It’s better than being surrounded by mountains of crates.”

“I happened to be a bit depressed about my…” Jaime pauses for a moment, trying to think of which word to use. He finds himself surprisingly reticent to be honest about this, even with a ghost. “My lover.”

“With whom you are still very much in love.”

Jaime sighs, “How obvious is it?”

“You’re clearly upset and not ready to move on yet.”

Jaime goes on the offensive, lashing out. “I suppose you’re jealous because nobody ever pined over you.”

Brienne’s bright blue eyes are wide and hold his gaze steadily, and the sorrow in her face deepens. “That shows how little you know about it.” A small sigh escapes her. “There was one.” 

Her voice is actually quite beautiful, a part of him notes, but Jaime is still too deep in his own hurt to stop repurposing his pain with which to attack Brienne. “A poor, misguided man too blind or dumb to know better? Or a woman? Perhaps a horse?” he spits spitefully. This conversation feels familiar to him and a whisper of regret begins to work its way through him, although he can’t say why. Maybe because his words taste like Cersei, and not in a good way.

But Brienne doesn’t rise to his bait; she’s still gazing at him with that sorrowful, intense gaze. “He was the handsomest knight and once the best swordsman in all the Seven Kingdoms. He sacrificed everything he was to save a city and all he was given in return for his service was scorn.”

Some ephemeral thought or feeling flits through him, but he can’t quite catch it. “I should think you were lying, but I’m not sure you’re capable. So you had a handsome suitor. Yet you say you’re a maid and died without leaving an heir.”

“We had long been on opposite sides of the war. It wasn’t until all the warring nobles finally realized that the Others were more important than their petty in-fighting that we came to an understanding. It took him a while to extricate himself from his family duties—his twin sister, Cersei, had seized the Iron Throne. And…and they had been lovers. She had birthed him children, passing them off as her husband’s.”

Jaime goes nearly as pale as Brienne, his heart pounding in his chest, but she doesn’t notice because she’s not looking at him anymore, but out the window again. 

“You loved a man who had had his own sister?”

“He once told me, ‘We don’t get to choose who we love,’ which is true enough. He loved her deeply, but she went mad, blew up part of Kings Landing to destroy her enemies and then refused to support the fighting at the Wall. He left her and took the Lannister army up to Winterfell where I was serving House Stark. He did not have many friends there for many reasons, but he and I had bonded through great suffering before the war began in earnest.” 

She smiles, laughing at herself a little. “We were quite the walking jest: the handsomest and homeliest knights in Westeros. The least honorable and the most honorable. I could not believe his affections were sincere—now, looking back, I mourn the time we lost to my insecurity. From the moment we first met, Jaime never lied to me. He spoke cruel truths, then kinder ones, sometimes bald ones. But he never lied. He never twisted a falsehood to truth with me, although I did see him play the game with others. He denied neither his sins nor his grace.”

She sighs. “He eventually convinced me of his love, and I confessed my own which had been growing longer than I liked to admit, but too late as it turned out to the eve of battle. The Long Night took many good men. He sacrificed his own life to save mine before we could wed.” Her voice is barely a whisper and her eyes back on his own, inexplicably pinning him in place. “He promised me he would not die. And then he did—for _me_. He—” She falls silent.

“His name. Give me his name.” Jaime doesn’t know why it matters, but he feels an urgency of his entire being. 

Part of him already knows the answer because those damned sapphire eyes say it with every look. Her sigh is the sea wind. “Jaime. His name was Jaime. Ser Jaime Lannister, also known as the Kingslayer and Ser Goldenhand.” 

Jaime is transfixed to the spot, unsure what the say—but he has learned that this ghost can blush because she is nearly Lannister red. He’s surprised that he’s _not_ surprised. Is this why Evenfall has felt like home at first sight? 

Brienne takes a breath and changes the subject back, “Your own lover…” 

Jaime nods, a little warily. “I don’t really know. She was just always there, my other half. She completes me. Or did.” Brienne’s gaze sharpens—he’d almost think it becomes knowing, but how could she possibly? 

“I found out she was cheating on me with half of King’s Landing. I don’t know if she fell out of love with me once I lost my hand and therefore my body guarding business, or if it started even before that. But I knew if I stayed in the city, I’d go back to her and I just didn’t want to be that man anymore.” 

Jaime takes a breath. He considers what Lady Brienne has shared about her own Jaime, about the simplicity with which she’d stated the fact about Ser Jaime’s past association with his twin sister. He also considers what she said about his forbear’s propensity for bald truthfulness, that she appreciated this about him.

“About her…she…she is also my sister. My twin sister. Cersei.” Brienne’s eyes are kind, as is her small, sad smile. She nods, as if confirming something. Most shockingly, she doesn’t seem surprised or disgusted. “She’d never choose a house like this.” He pauses, trying to snatch at the elusive feeling of familiarity. “It reminds me of somewhere. An old song or a poem…”

“It features in a few histories of the Seven Kingdoms even before the War of the Five Kings. Songs, too, but I imagine they’ve been lost to time.”

Jaime nods. “Strange to find a knight who knows her history.”

“War is largely waiting around for battle. I loved reading tales about great knights and their deeds.”

“A romantic, eh? Reading for inspiration at your camp fire, surrounded by pages cleaning your armor.”

“Squires. Squires care for a knight’s armor. A page serves at court.”

“I don’t know anything about medieval warfare, except that the stories make it sound glorious. I imagine the reality was less so—I know it’s still an awful business today.”

“Most who have never fought think so. Warriors know better.” They share a look of understanding.

“It’s a wonder anyone goes to battle.” 

“Because they haven’t the sense to make peace. Heavens help the ordinary foot solider.” 

“Were you ever one?”

“For several years, I was no better than an ordinary hedge knight, wandering to fulfill my quest to find and protect two young women. I was fortunate to have been gifted with good armor, a horse, a squire, and a magnificent blade, though.”

“It’s rather hard to imagine you being an ordinary anything,” Jaime smirks at her, a bit fondly. She rolls her eyes at this, but smiles as well.

The sound of a motor running breaks the moment and Brienne goes to the window to see what it is. “You’ve got visitors.” Her voice is flat—she recognizes them, even centuries later.

Jaime goes to the window to look for himself. “Seven hells, whatever they _they_ want?”

“Who is it?” She wants to hear him name them, place them so she can be sure.

“My sweet sister and my uncle.” Jaime cracks open the door and hears Peck downstairs manfully trying to put them off. 

“But he’s resting, Mrs. Baratheon, Mr. Lannister.” 

“Then we’ll go up,” Cersei snipes. Jaime can feel her sneer from upstairs. He quickly shuts the door and turns back to Brienne. 

“Quick: hide, or go away or decompose.” He’s shaken.

“Dematerialize, ser.” Brienne smirks. “I decomposed quite a while ago.”

“Whatever it is, do it quickly!” Jaime doesn’t even try to hide his exasperation or uneasiness at being forcibly reminded that he’s been speaking with a dead woman. 

“No fear, they won’t be able to see me or hear me unless I choose that they should.”

“Please _don’t_ choose. I’ll get rid of them.”

“Why don’t you let me? I’ve had plenty of practice.” The mischievous look on Brienne’s face does not seem at home there at all; it is an expression that would be much more at home on his own face—and is that gleam in her eye vengeance?

“No!”

“Say the word and I’ll defeat them both.” 

“No, you’re not to do anything!” Jaime growls as the door behind him opens and Cersei sweeps in without knocking, Kevan in her wake like a rather soggy paper boat struggling to stay on course in swift water.

“Well, Jaime? Talking to yourself,” Cersei widens her eyes knowingly at Kevan. 

Kevan rushes forward, grasping Jaime’s left hand, and patting his right shoulder. “Oh, Jaime, you look so pale.”

Cersei looks about her and clearly does not like what she sees. “What an _ugly_ room. Whatever do you want with that sword and shield on the wall? It’s like some ridiculous theme restaurant or honeymoon hotel.”

“I think it fits in with the history of the house quite well.”

“You’ve never cared about history before. Sit down, Kevan.” Kevan chooses the wing chair and Cersei flounces over to the settee, pausing to look at Brienne’s portrait first. “What a _hideous_ painting. That is the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen. Is that even a woman?” He winces internally as he hears his own earlier sentiments echoed.

Jaime can see Brienne standing in the corner, crossing her arms and glaring at Cersei but neither of his guests seem to notice her. “Anyone as hateful as you ought to steer clear of passing judgment,” Brienne sniffs unheard by any but Jaime himself. Jaime panics for a moment until he sees neither Cersei nor Kevan react.

“Why don’t you take it down?” Cersei demands. “No one should suffer staring at _this_ every day. And in your _bedroom!_ How horrible.” She laughs.

“Because it’s one of the forebears of this house—it’s a former noble house’s seat, you know. The line is now defunct, but it adds character and provides more pleasant company than some. I like it, Cersei. I’m quite fond of her.”

Cersei and Brienne both huff, for different reasons, pulling a grin out of Jaime. 

He continues, “I would have thought you would appreciate a lady knight. You complained enough about the stories and movies we grew up with not having enough women in action-oriented roles. Well, here we have one—a historical one, no less.”

“Not when she’s this hideous. Of course, if you want a portrait of a repulsive aurochs in your room, well, that’s up to you.”

“I’m sure you didn’t come all the way to Tarth merely to criticize the décor,” Jaime prompts.

“No, we did not.” Cersei twirls around meeting his glare, with an unpleasant, gloating smile on her perfect lips.

Kevan sighs, “Jaime, we’ve got terrible news for you. I suppose it’s all for the best everything considered though—don’t you, Cersei?”

Cersei nods, “And in my opinion, we’re just in time.” This can’t be good.

Kevan continues, “So perhaps our bad news is good news after all and now we can take you home to Casterly Rock and forget all this nonsense about leaving the family.” 

“What news is this?” Now Jaime is worried.

“Robert’s bequest—the investments he made for you as part of his will—they’ve petered out.”

“Deflated. They’ve stopped paying dividends,” Cersei helpfully adds. “It was in The Times this morning.”

“Oh.” Jaime sits down hard on the settee next to where Brienne is glaring in the corner. The bequest was his ticket out of relying on his father for money, for cutting his ties with his family. This is devastating news. He takes a deep, slow breath, trying to come up with some sort of response.

“Don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing you crawl back,” Brienne advises him.

Jaime is firm, “I have no intention of crawling back.”

Kevan tries to placate him, “Of course not, Jaime. You’d not be crawling back, you’d be the son and heir resuming his duties, coming home.” Kevan pats him on the back and Jaime is trying his best not to show his annoyance because as far as Lannisters go, his Uncle Kevan is a decent sort who generally means well but Jaime’s exasperation gets the better of him. 

“Please, Kevan,” he says, playing for time.

“You need a decisive victory or they’ll draw you back,” Brienne warns.

Jaime snaps at her, “Keep out of this!”

Kevan thinks he’s talking to him and recoils, hurt. “Jaime!”

Jaime lets loose a sigh, getting up to put some distance between himself and Kevan and Brienne. “Fuck my life.”

Kevan gasps, genuinely shocked and Cersei puts on her best scandalized face.

“Jaime, that’s no way to speak to family. Did you hear him, Cersei!”

“I _did_ , uncle, but stop sniveling.” She turns to Jaime. “If that’s what you want, we will keep out of it.”

Not the way he’d have liked it to come about, but it’s the result he was looking for. “Fine. Good.”

Cersei manages to look down her nose at him, even though she has to look up. “All I know is that you’re acting in a most peculiar manner. The only charitable explanation is that the solitude is preying on your mind.”

Brienne grumbles, “She thinks you’ve gone mad. Well, she has some experience in that herself, I imagine, so she may know.” Jaime steals a brief look at her.

“Pipe down,” Jaime says, and once again, Cersei and Kevan think he’s speaking to them and not to Brienne. “I want to think.”

Cersei stands up straight, wearing her best bored, haughty expression, the one she saves for inconsequential charity advocates who cannot offer anything to increase her stature in the philanthropic community. “Very well. I _will_ ‘pipe down’ as you put it, but it should be perfectly obvious that with your income gone, there’s only one course for you to follow, and that is to come home to Casterly Rock. Now. With us.”

Jaime is livid. “You mean give up Evenfall Hall?”

Cersei rolls her eyes, “Naturally. It was idiotic to take it in the first place and now that you’re a pauper, how can you possibly stay?”

Brienne has been hanging back during this exchange, but crosses to just behind Jaime, lending him her support. “Don’t do it, Jaime.”

He cants his head back to her slightly, a little surprised. “Do you _want_ me to stay?” 

“Yes,” she admits.

“You really mean it?”

“Of course I mean it. Tell them to shove off. We’ll think of something.” Throughout this exchange, Kevan and Cersei are looking at Jaime utterly bemused and maybe a touch worried.

Jaime takes a breath and nods to himself, turning back to his guests. “I’m sorry, it’s very kind of you want me back, but I’m going to stay. I’ll manage somehow. So please be good enough to shove off.”

Kevan gasps and Cersei glares at him, recovering first. “Very well. You’re obviously insane and I for one want nothing more to do with you,” she sniffs. “Come, Kevan,” she turns on her heel and leaves the room without even looking to see if Kevan follows. She knows he will. Kevan spares his nephew a sad, confused look and walks out shaking his head, shutting the door behind him.

“Lady Brienne…” Jaime turns to face the ghost only to find she’s disappeared. “Lady Brienne, where are you?” The room remains empty. He recalls her earlier entreaty to scare their visitors off. “Don’t forget your promise!” he calls, unsure what the wench has planned.

As Kevan and Cersei go down the staircase, she turns to him. “It’s _too_ ridiculous. I’m going to give him one more chance.” Cersei turns to ascend the staircase again, but feels herself being tugged back. “Don’t try to stop me, uncle!” she growls as Brienne chuckles unheard. 

“I’m not stopping you, Cersei!” This has been a most vexing day and between Jaime talking to himself and Cersei imagining things, he’s not sure he can take much more. He’s got a date with a bottle of Arbor red tonight. He’s earned it, damn it all to the seven hells.

Cersei turns to climb again, and again finds herself unable to ascend. “Stop it, I say!”

“And I tell you, I’m not touching you!” Kevan insists. At this remark, Brienne seizes both their arms and frog marches them down the rest of the staircase, pushes them out the door, and slams it shut. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for at _least_ five centuries,” she smiles to herself, leaning back against the front door, which she’s locked for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I threw a little Rochester in there. (I kinda really love _Jayne_ , er, I mean, _Jane Eyre_.)


	8. An Amusing Diversion and a Cunning Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Mr. Varys, Ghost!Brienne
> 
> In which Jaime and Brienne chart a course, er, plan their campaign. Jaime chooses earnest truth. :Slow burn intensifies!:

Mr. Varys steps out of the car and greets Jaime. “Oh, I’m so glad you found the house suitable after all. I’m convinced now we were unduly concerned about the possibility of a ghost haunting it. As you say, how could such things exist in the 20th century?”

Jaime smiles, “Indeed. How could they?” He asks in a dry tone and forces himself to not look up at his bedroom window as they make their way up the footpath to the front door.

“Still, you must admit it’s a very isolated location and I’ve often thought of you out here alone without the protection…a friend…might offer you.” Varys smiles intently at Jaime, fishing for a reaction, who simply ignores Varys’s tone; he’s used to being flirted with and it doesn’t bother him so long as people keep their hands to themselves. But then they both notice Varys’s car starts slowly sliding backward and Jaime chuckles as he can only imagine Lady Brienne is running interference by releasing the parking brake. Varys moves very quickly and gracefully for a man of his build intercepting the car. He thinks better about returning the house and drives off with a wave.

After the previous day’s revelations and confessions, Jaime and Brienne have reached a tacit agreement to not dwell on certain uncomfortable truths: that he could practically be her dead love reborn, that he’s had a decades long affair with his twin sister (also very much like her dead love). It’s easier this way—the Seven know Brienne is awkward enough as it is. And he can’t put his finger on why precisely, but he does know he likes her. He’s glad for her prickly, overly circumspect company. 

Some of it is probably because she was so accepting of his past relationship with Cersei, and knowing that she’d not despised her own Jaime for the same, still managing to love him—that can’t hurt. He’d never imagined that anyone aside from Tyrion would not look at him differently after learning about the affair. And maybe because she doesn’t make a big deal about it, he’s able to begin to put Cersei away. He’ll surprise himself to find that he has thought about her all day, then later, weeks. 

His heart hurts for Brienne a bit; sometimes he’ll catch her stealing a look at him, and it’s clear she’s thinking about the man she lost. And while she compares them often enough, it’s clear that she’s very aware that he is not her Jaime, and she does not take advantage of her incorporeal state. After that first night, she apologized and solemnly informed him that she would not occupy the same room as him invisibly. “It was just such a shock—to see you there, with his face, after so many centuries. I couldn’t help myself. It was unworthy.” He couldn’t help smiling gently at her, telling her it was fine, no apologies needed, and wishing that he might touch her to offer some comfort, some warmth.

Still laughing from watching Varys chase his car done the road, he makes his way inside and finds her standing in front of the fire. “I only hope when I reach the afterlife, I have a bit more subtlety. Thank you for protecting my honor, my lady, but I assure you, I can take care of myself. Varys is a harmless flirt, anyhow.”

“Subtlety? You call it subtle to let yourself be ogled by that grasping agent?”

“Lady Brienne, I asked Mr. Varys here because he’s logical man to help me find lodgers for this summer.”

“Lodgers? Forgive me, ser, I misunderstood. I thought he’d try to take advantage of your situation.”

“Mr. Varys?” A great belly laugh renders him speechless. “That schemer? You think I’d _allow_ him to? There’s no shame in it, but I don’t swing that way. He certainly couldn’t do it without my permission—I may have lost a hand, but I’m still in fighting shape.”

“It’s my experience that some will do anything for money,” Brienne sniffs.

“You and your antiquated notions might have ruined everything.”

“There’s no harm done. I couldn’t allow you to take lodgers in any case, not in Evenfall. They’re worse than camp followers and courtesans.”

“It’s that or starve. I refuse to take my father’s money.”

“I think I may have solved your problems: you’re going to write a book.”

“A book? Write?” Jaime holds up his right stump. “Really? Do tell. I find it hard enough to write a postcard.”

“We’ll think of something. I see you talk into that screen on your desk and it turns your speech into words. We can write a book together and you can find a publisher and make sure it makes sense to a modern reader.”

“What would it be about?”

“The War of the Five Kings. From my perspective. A historical novel. And we’ll call it…we’ll call it…’A Knight’s Tale.’ ”

“I think that may already have been used. But we’ll think of something.”

“Fine, yes. It should be a dignified title, though.”

“Interesting idea, but it takes months to write a book. What are we to live on in the meantime?”

“You have jewelry and other expensive things, do you not?”

“Some.”

“Sell.”

“Well, this Lannister doesn’t shit gold any longer.”

Brienne’s eyes dance, “They _still_ say that about your house, even now? So it was in my day as well.”

“I guess some things really don’t change,” he smiles back at her, making her blush. It makes him feel warm inside, although it shouldn’t. Their eyes lock just a bit too long without something else happening. What that something else would be, Jaime isn’t sure because she gets up and it breaks the moment. 

“What about that ring?” She points to the somewhat heavy ruby and gold ring on Jaime’s middle finger. 

“My ring? Cersei gave it to me.”

“Well, all the more reason: it’s ostentatious and you said you wanted to cut ties with her. Don’t tell me you would have kept it, let alone have worn it, if your father or someone else had given it to you? Based on what I see you wear, I don’t think it’s really in your taste.”

“I guess you have a point. It’s this or going back to her and Casterly Rock. I can probably get a few thousand for it, maybe more if I got it in front of the right buyer.”

“You’re being very sensible. And since we’re going to be collaborators, you may call me Brienne.”

“That’s very good of you, Brienne. You should call me Jaime—no more of this ser-ing. I’m not a ser after all, even if I remind you of a certain knight who apparently had the fortune to share both in my incredibly good looks _as well_ and my excellent name,” Jaime teases her. Causing her ghost-blushes has become one of his favorite hobbies in a very short time. He knows it’s unfair and can’t imagine how he might feel if he was the one confronted with his centuries-dead love’s doppelgänger teasing him, but he’s just enough of an asshole to not care because he is having so much fun. And slowly, Brienne is giving as good as she gets.

“And his ego and tireless tongue as well,” she retorts, clearly embarrassed.

Jaime arches a perfect eyebrow. “A tireless tongue? Well, I _do_ have excellent stamina,” his smile turns downright evil and he is delighted to have discovered an entirely new shade of blush. “Glad to know my forbear didn’t disappoint.”

“Jaime!” she scolds him. “You should not speak to a lady so!”

“I’m only teasing, Brienne. Do you trust me?”

She sighs. “I do. Our truce holds.”

He takes a breath and forces himself to be truthful to her. “It’s easier to believe this will work when I’m talking to you, but when you’re not here, I—well, it’s asking a great deal to expect anyone to trust their whole future to a—to someone who isn’t real.”

“But I am real. I’m here because you believe I’m here. Keep on believing, and I’ll always be real to you.”

“Yes, Brienne. I won’t stop believing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a short chapter, but the last two were a pretty decent length, I think! I can make no apologies for the final line of this chapter because it's (mostly) from the movie.


	9. Interlude the Second – O Brother, How Art Thou?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Tryrion
> 
> It was needed. I broTP these guys hard.

Jaime is lying out in the sun, enjoying the white noise of the surf. His phone rings and he looks at it planning to ignore it, but sees it’s his brother. He pauses, but picks up. He’ll always pick up for Tyrion, even if it’s to say _unless you’re accused of murder or dying, not now._

“Jaime! How are you?” Tyrion sounds both worried and amused. “Kevan’s been particularly pensive and non-committal about your return at the Board meetings and Cersei’s been even more of a raging bitch.” Then he waits a little: for all that he’s as talkative as the rest of his family, Tyrion knows the great power of leaving a pause for others to fill in. Lions wait for sheep to bleat…and in this situation, for once, his handsome big brother is definitely the sheep. For as much as he loves Jaime, he’s cackling internally at the reversal of fortune, enjoying the position.

“What do you know?” Jaime doesn't fall for it, but lobs the conversational ball back at his brother. Just because he’s impossibly pretty doesn’t mean Jaime’s as dumb or naïve as other people like to assume; he _is_ Twyin Lannister’s son, after all. Maybe his apple didn’t fall as closely to the tree as Tyrion’s, but he’s learned enough at his father’s distant knee.

“Not much, just that the pension that Robert left you is pretty much gone and that you threw back their offer to return into the family fold in order to stay on Tarth.” Jaime can hear his brother’s smirk on the other end of the line. “Now, I can’t say I’m sorry about this turn of events at all aside from not seeing you more often, but I’m curious. Why?” And because Tyrion is better at this, he’s able to let it go so that Jaime must rise to the conversational bait, however long it takes.

“Why what?”

“Why any of it: Tarth, leaving the family business, leaving Cersei—you’ve tried before.” Once, this final comment would have nearly immobilized Jaime as Tyrion was the only one who knew. But now that secret had spread to two and finds the weight lighter for it. This makes Jaime think of Brienne, of her clear eyes, of her honor, and answers in kind. He decides his brother is owed honesty for knowing and keeping silent on this particular truth.

“It was time, time for me to leave her. You showed me her unfaithfulness and when I left, it helped me see that really, it was already over, had been over. I just didn’t know. Or realize. Or see a path away from hers. I think she did, she just didn’t say anything. I don’t know why.” He thinks. “Maybe for nostalgia. Or a memory of love. Or thinking I might still be useful. I don’t know. I guess I don’t care why. I just know it was done but I couldn’t do it if I didn’t leave. I chose Tarth because it was on the other side of Westeros and she would never willingly come here and something about it spoke to me. And then I came here and fell in love.” His heart fills unexpectedly with the truth and power of this. “I walked off the ferry, and felt glad. The sapphire sea, this house, it it all spoke to me and I don't know, it just makes me happy." He pauses, thinking. "I walked the halls,” here he pauses trying to find the words that are both truth but hide the truth, “It was like when I met the spirit of the place, I knew I was home.”

Tyrion is silent for a while, and it is a comfortable, connected silence. “Jaime, I’m glad. I’m gladder than I can say. Stay there as long as you need and let me know if you need anything. I love you.” It’s not something they say often, but they always mean it. Jaime is speechless, but knows Tyrion can hear his love coming back to him through the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was short, so two chapters today! The next chapter is longer and brings a bit of angst and more feels. (C'mon, you knew it was coming what with Brienne being a ghost but Jaime being alive somehow. I am striving for a happy ending somehow, though!)


	10. The Write Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Brienne. 
> 
> Jaime helps document Brienne’s story. There are so very many feels.

Brienne pauses in her dictation to give Jaime a chance to revise. He pauses, a thoughtful but displeased expression on his face. “What’s the matter?” She moves from across the room to stand close by and look at the screen. The spelling of words has changed somewhat, but it’s understandable to her, she just needs to concentrate a bit. “You haven’t finished the sentence.”

Jaime takes a breath, considering his words. “I know, it’s…it’s all just so…noble. It’d be unbelievable if I didn’t know you!”

“ ‘Noble’ is a good word!”

“I think it’s a horrid word if you want to sell copies of a book.”

“But it’s what happened!”

“I could not doubt you, Brienne. But I have to think of the modern audience.” 

“Well, what would you do if you wanted to appeal to a ‘modern audience?’ Don’t they want tales of noble heroes?”

“Nobility is like wine: best in moderation.” Jaime pauses, “My brother Tyrion might not agree—on either count, actually—but the point stands. The world is different now. People are different now: they _like_ good characters doing bad things and bad people doing good things; it’s more realistic, more interesting. The world isn’t in black and white like an old movie.” 

“I suppose that’s a fair point.” Brienne doesn’t quite understand what he means by “an old movie,” but she concedes and continues her dictation. “At this point, King Renly was wed to Queen Margaery Tyrell at Highgarden and I was determined to pledge my service. Some of the knights in the van were not as noble as they first appeared,” here Brienne breaks off a moment, thinking how to proceed. Jaime gives her an encouraging look and motions to her to continue. She takes a steadying breath. “They resented having a woman fighter amongst them. I was not a pretty girl, and so in their boredom, they thought to make sport of me.” Her eyes go far away and she speaks more slowly, clearly thinking about how she wants to lay this out, but her tone is matter of fact.

“War, when not a mad scramble to survive, is boring. It is traveling and packing and cleaning and cooking day after day. There is not much to relieve the dullness other than gambling, fighting, or,” and here Brienne pauses and swallows hard (or what passes for that with a ghost) but pushes forward because, by the Seven, she’s going to write a damn book that sells for Jaime so spits out, “fucking.” Jaime beams at her, silently grinning so as not to break her train of thought and nods his head encouragingly.

“So. A group of the lesser knights decided to play a game. They wagered on which of them could take my maidenhead and my honor.” Brienne’s face is calm, her voice matter of fact. This is an old pain and an old story she has told before and over the centuries, has no sharp edges left, but Jaime is horrified. Horrified, but not surprised. 

“I was not sorry to face them at the tourney of Bitterbridge to celebrate King Renly’s marriage where I felled each and every one of those unworthy louts with my mace until it was between me and Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, and King Renley’s own dear good-brother.” Looking again at Jaime, sitting there in his newfangled clothes in front of his magical box, she is reminded that she’s supposed to be considering a modern audience, whatever that meant. “Ser Loras was also King Renley’s own true love.” She pauses, trying to gauge Jaime’s reaction. He simply raises his eyebrows and motions to her to continue. “Looking back on it now, I never really thought about it before, but Margaery must have known. I wonder if it bothered her or it simply eased a marriage of convenience?”

She shakes herself back to her previous topic, the melee, and she smiles proudly at the memory. “They thought to make mock of me, my so-called suitors, but I knocked them all into the dust until none could speak a word. King Renly named me the victor and offered me a prize. I asked to join his Rainbow Guard. He named me then Brienne the Blue and gave me my kingsguard cloak.” Her fond, faraway look falls on Jaime and changes into something a little wistful.

“I wish I had known you then,” He says. “How old were you, Brienne?”

“Twenty. It was my first tourney melee.”

“Only twenty,” He smiles, shaking his head at the thought of a young, bright-eyed Brienne mowing down a field of idiotic men, bringing justice with every swing of her mace. He thinks for a moment on his own soldiering days at twenty. “I mean, it’s actually awful, what those men did to you, but you paid them back with interest.” He shakes his head. “Did you have to run away from home in order to fight?”

“No,” Brienne smiles, gentle in the memory. “My father let me leave. After three failed betrothals, I think he’d finally accepted his only child wasn’t going to give him heirs the traditional way. You see, after the second insulted me, I insisted that any suitor beat me in a fair fight. …He meant well, but my father’s third intended for me was a man of over sixty and refused to let me keep fighting but insisted I act like ‘a proper woman.’ I sent him away with a broken collarbone in thanks,” She grins ruefully at him. “Renly was the first kind man I’d met, you see. He was crossing the Stormlands, meeting with his family’s bannermen. He danced with me in my great hall and didn’t mock me.” She looks down at Jaime, her face open, frank, and honest. 

“Renly, he was so very handsome. I was not formed to wear dresses well or dance gracefully in a great hall: I was made for armor and dancing on the battlefield. They called me ‘The Beauty’ out of spite and I knew the cruelty of it better than they did. Nevertheless, Renly was gracious and kind. He did not mock me. He treated me like a lady. So when he called his banners in his bid for the throne and my father undecided about whom he would support, what else might a girl of nineteen, an heiress with no prospects than her mace and shield, have done? I hoped my father would wed and breed again,” she sighs. 

“Once again, Renly welcomed me as I was. I later I learned that he merely tolerated me for my strong arm, and well, I cannot fault him. His heart was given to another, and I never really, truly expected his regard. But at least he was decent enough to let me be useful to him in a manner in which I could excel.”

Brienne looks out the window at the cobalt waters. “If only my father had known how it would end up—that I would someday find real love, with a noble suitor no less, even if it did not produce an heir…” Her smile is soft and wry and transforms her face into something that, while not pretty, is endearing. Her eyes search the horizon for she knows not what. “I like to think that he would be happy. Happy for me that I found such love. And I think he would laugh at the particulars given the indignity of breaking my prior betrothals, in the end—Ser Jaime very nearly did best me once before in chains before he he lost his right hand. He was tired, and half-starved after a year in the dungeons of Riverrun. This was when we’d just met and hated each other.” Jaime quirks an eyebrow at Brienne, curious. 

“In my attempt to subdue him, I nearly drowned him, and when a passing peasant noticed us grappling, he said, ‘Thousand pardons. You caught me chastising my wife.’ ” She actually _giggles_ and it matures into a full-throated laugh. "I can't believe he knew, although he did argue later that he'd loved me even then, that it was prophetic." She regards the sea for a long moment. "He was so used to lying to himself to justify his loves." She is sad. "He wanted to be loved so very much. _He_ loved so very much." Slowly, she tips her face towards the Jaime seated on the other side of the room. “Pardon me; I’m rambling.”

Jaime clears his throat, which has gone a little dry. It takes another pass before he can speak, “No, no, this is good. Readers will like this.” He can’t quite stop himself from saying, “I like this. Your life, what you’ve been through, what you’ve survived. How you’re able to look back on it all without bitterness.”

She laughs, “I suppose you could say I spent my bitterness at Bitterbridge. It sounds well, but it’s not true. Truth isn't so pretty.” She smiles wryly, then turns pensive and a bit more serious. “I feel each of my years. I wasn’t really able to leave all that behind until much later, until another trusted to my honor and respected my strength in arms.” She’s gone as distant as the ghost she seems.

“Ser Jaime,” Jaime whispers.

Her blue eyes meet his, strong as a lighthouse beam. “Yes.” There is another moment where they seem content to simply gaze on each other, unmoving. Then she recollects herself and parries. “And you, what were you like as a boy? Did you also grow up in Casterly Rock, like he did? You’ve mentioned it in passing.”

Jaime shakes his head, like trying to dislodge a dream. “Yes…yes. I did. Cersei, Tyrion, and I,” and he grimaces at realizing yet again what order he lists his siblings. “Although the minute we were old enough, Father sent us to prep schools.”

“Where you paraded your way through the halls, playing pranks and trying to intimidate the maesters, no doubt.”

“And you? Hmmm…back then, it must have been a septa. She scolded your sewing and insulted your freckles.”

Brienne sniffs, “True.”

“You still have them, even now, quite plain on your ghostly face,” Jaime notices, standing rather closer than he thought.

“But,” and here her smile lets itself turn a little wicked, “I was later told they are most charming.” 

“They are at that,” he smiles up at her. Once again, he’s struck that she presents his own smile back to him on her very different face. It does something to him that he doesn’t have words for. He knows he’s not her Jaime and she knows he’s not her Jaime. He knows she isn’t doing this on purpose—she’s been nearly painfully honorable about the entire situation. But he is not so green or foolish to not realize that he has feelings for her. (He is a bit surprised, however.) He’s not quite sure _what kind_ of feelings they are exactly, just that he prefers to be in her presence, that he’s happier when they are together, that writing her life story seems exactly right for who and where and when he is.

_Wait, what—when?_

The clock chimes twelve and breaks into their thoughts. Something like fear crosses her features, but he doesn’t have time to wonder how he can read her so well so soon.

“I didn’t realize the hour!” she apologizes.

“I had no idea it was so late,” he refuses to break their gaze.

“You’d better be getting some sleep,” she looks down and turns away, cutting the tension. “We’ll put in a full day tomorrow.” She turns to the French window to open it and step outside to the balcony.

“Brienne,” Jaime asks, not quite ready for her to go yet, “What happened to your father when you went off to follow Renly?”

Her smile is a little sad, “He probably thanked heaven that I had found a lord who would accept my service and that I would cease to embarrass him at his own hearth.”

“Did he write to you?”

“When I was at Highgarden, yes; they had a rookery. Once the war began in earnest, I was rarely in a keep with enough favor to justify a raven, and letters sent by courier weren’t reliable unless you had an armed escort for them. We were not so significant or wealthy a house to warrant such.” She sighs, “I was in the north when he died of a fever. It was the year I was knighted.” 

Jaime lets out a breath. Brienne cocks her head at him. “What troubles you, Jaime?”

“I’m thinking how lonely you must have felt. That he was proud of you, with his quiet hall and quiet training yard in the absence of his precious, unweddable warrior daughter, but glad to know she was making her way out in the world on her terms.” 

He turns to catch her eye, but she has gone and left the door open to the salt breeze, the moonlight dancing on the waves with the familiarity of waltzing with one’s beloved. He turns off the light and watches the ebb and flow, listening to the endless call and response as he drifts away, pulled by the dreamtide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the movie, Lucy balks at writing profanity, so it was fun to think about what would give Jaime pause. Had Jaime been the ghost, then I think we _all_ have some ideas how he would have achieved that.
> 
> This is the greatest diversion from the movie so far because the characters and their experiences are so different. The plot devices (have characters bond over sharing life experiences while writing the novel) are the same, but the dynamic and tone is very (or “veddy” if using the peculiar period Mid-Atlantic pronunciation) much not the same.
> 
> It does makes me want someone to tackle this idea with Jaime as the ghost and Brienne as the renter because this scene in particular has some fun possibilities that just don’t work with Brienne as the ghost— It’s a bit sweeter than I expected—but hopefully not overly so…but if that’s the case, weeeeell, I did deploy a fluff tag. I suspect I may also have to deploy an angst tag, but I’m not quite sure yet. Still pantsing this thing and not sure where it’s going to end up.


	11. Story of My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peck, Jaime, Brienne. More feels as they complete Brienne’s life story. Angst ahoy! (I think it will get better, but for now: ANNNNNNNNGST.)

Jaime is sitting on the patio admiring the surf when Peck rolls into the driveway with the shopping. He drops a note at Jaime’s elbow. “I ran into Mr. Varys in town and he asked me to give this to you.”

“Thanks, Peck. It’s another demand for the rent.”

“He did say something about sending the bailiffs to put us out.” For the first time, Peck looks a little uncomfortable. “You know, I’ve got a little money put away and there’s nothing for me to spend it on here.”

“Oh, thank you, Peck, but I wouldn’t dream of taking it. We’ll manage somehow.”

“Well, you’ve not failed us yet,” Peck smiles and takes the shopping inside.

Brienne materializes and moves to Jaime. “We should move more quickly with the book.”

Jaime squints up at her, the sun in his eyes, “What if he sends the bailiffs around?”

“I’ll handle them. I know they’re just doing their duty, but so am I: Evenfall is my home.”

“I’m so tired, Brienne. I can’t see straight or think straight.”

“There’s only one more chapter to do,” she tries to cheer him. “Better be at it.”

Jaime doesn’t take the hint, still distant, lost in his thoughts.

“Jaime?” Brienne asks, now a bit concerned.

He doesn’t startle, but does meet her eyes. “I’m ready, Brienne.”

“Good, my l-friend.”

Jaime smiles at her and they move inside. He’s been wondering what it will mean for them both once he completes the novel. They spend so much of their time together now, at ease even when talking about the most difficult things. He admits to himself that he’s been getting lost in her story, that it’s harder for him to not see himself in what must surely be an ancestor. There are so many parallels between them already that he supposes it’s not entirely surprising that he’s identifying so strongly with Ser Jaime.

They move inside and go upstairs where Jaime boots up his computer, starting the dictation software. “Are you ready to finish this, Brienne?”

She takes a deep breath (it still amuses and reassures him to see her retain little touches of the living), and nods. She takes her customary place staring out at the crashing surf, water as deep and as blue as her gaze.

_“They faced the Night King side by side, matching Valyrian steel swords blazing in their hands, surrounded by deep snowdrifts created through slaying the Others. Taller than even the Mountain, the Night King was a fearsome sight to behold and moved faster than ice cracks, but with much the same sound. He raised his greatsword and was suddenly upon them with the speed of a snow flurry._

_The lady knight moved to parry, knowing it would be too late and braced herself to feel the cold, but none came. She looked up and realized her love had taken the blow meant for her and her heart blazed, as did her blade. Before the Night King could withdraw his blade from Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne smoothly beheaded the bringer of winter and ended his reign._

_The winds and snow stopped. Dawn’s light shone on the horizon. But despite these things that they had all been praying for so long, the lady now felt the cold deep inside her as she gazed upon her fallen love and sank down to her knees beside him, embracing him and treasuring his warmth while it was still there._

_Her tears froze on her cheeks, and Ser Jaime raised his hand to melt and wipe them away. “Well, I **did** tell Bronn I wanted to die in the arms of the woman I love, so at least I get my wish,” he managed to laugh._

_“It can’t be. Not after we stopped him. Not after all we’ve been through. Not after everything else we've lost.”_

_“Of course it can, love. Not all of the stories have a happy ending. Heavens knows I don’t deserve one, but I’m grateful for what joy I have found. But I need you to swear one last oath.”_

_Lady Brienne eye-balls him through her tears. “Aren’t you always telling me to be more careful about the oaths I swear? And who I swear them to?” She smiles, so so sadly. “What would you have of me, Jaime?”_

_“So much more than I can manage at the moment, dearest,” And Brienne can’t help laughing through her tears because only her Jaime would make a bawdy jest on his deathbed and still sound romantic. He holds her eyes and she tries to memorize that particular shade of green, the special warmth of his regard. “Live. Live your life, Brienne. You are so much younger than I. You’ve always been a much better knight. Be the Lady Knight of Tarth and help your people. Find love. I’ve known it twice, and the second time was far superior to the first. I want you to have that.” She wants to contradict him, but he silences her with a look. “I won’t pretend to have been a pious man—it has always been truth between us—but if there’s anything at all after death, know that I will find you. I know you. I would know you anywhere. But until then, live your life.”_

_And then she saw the light begin to dim and kissed him gently before he was gone, then felt his welcoming lips go slack. His face was so peaceful, more so than she had ever seen it. It was almost a comfort._

_The King in the North found her cradling his cold body in the snow about an hour later. Brienne was fortunate to have found a good friend in the Ladies Sansa and Arya who provided different kinds of comfort in her mourning, and King Jon kept her busy in her grief so that she wouldn't drown. But in time, once Winterfell was put to rights and fealties had been settled in north, east, south, and west, it was time to go back to her duty as the Lady of Tarth. And while she never did marry or bear a child, she followed the example of the Dragon Queen and was as a mother to her people.”_

Brienne is silent a long moment, lost in the past, and Jaime is a jumble of feelings and impulses that he is desperately trying to put to some kind of order. The silence between them is dense and complicated, but not uncomfortable.

“Well then. It is done," Brienne pronounces.

Jaime lets out a long breath, running his hand through his hair. "I will seek out LittleFinger Publishing. The man who runs it, Petyr Baelish, is a slimy toad of a man who thinks himself more charming and clever than he really is, and fancies himself an amateur medieval historian. He says he is descended from a small but noble house that played an important role in the War of the Five Kings, so he should be interested.”

Brienne moves out to the balcony outside of the French windows to watch the sun set. The face she turns on Jaime is composed and calm again. “He is actually correct: his namesake was involved in a number of ways—I knew him a little, or rather, our paths crossed once I'd found Lady Sansa. Later I learned he was instrumental in causing and capitulating the breakdown of the Seven Kingdoms. That is another story, but should he trouble you, recall the Lord Horemaster my Lady Sansa slew just before I helped her escape: that was Petyr Baelish,” she smirks. “I don’t think Mr. Baelish would appreciate any sort of dirty laundry aired, regardless of how old it might be, so I changed his family name and inserted a minor Vale house with his family name.”

Jaime raises his eyebrows at her. “Is that honorable, my lady?”

“I’ve been dead a while, Jaime. I’ve had some time to learn a few new tricks. Y— _Ser Jaime_ —used to scold me that my sense of honor would get me killed, and I suppose you could say that it did. I’ve had rather a while to think on honor and its worth. Anyhow, you’re going to present this as a work of fiction, not a history. It’s not meant to be true, so I’m fine with it if it means that the subject matter will interest him and you won’t be evicted.”

“Trying to save me again, Brienne?” Jaime gives her a wicked smile.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Welllllll…” he drawls, “There was that time you saved me from Mr. Varys’s shameless flirting.”

She visibly relaxes and barks a laugh. “Better a tenant who respects history and the legacy of the house I let die than one who would knock it all down.”

“Oh, Brienne, you really blame yourself, don’t you?”

“Of course I do! It’s an heir’s primary duty—doubly so for a female heir. My house died with me, Jaime. Because I was stubborn and selfish. All my life, I was stubborn and selfish. I could even keep my final oath to live.”

“Brienne, there is no honor to surrendering to someone unworthy. How could you have known your father would not have another child? Had you not been taken by fever, you might have found a husband you could respect, and hopefully love. Yours is not the first house to die because of unforeseen events. And what kind of Lady of Tarth would have been if you had meekly submitted to some boorish oaf of a man who did not love or at least respect you? I saw what that did to Cersei, Brienne, and she’s a cynical, ambitious woman who went into her marriage with her eyes open, thinking that living the life of an aristocratic wife was worth putting up with a faithless, cruel husband whom she never loved. Despite her lust for power and social status, it destroyed her and she left him. I…I can’t begin to imagine what that kind of marriage would have done to you. I can’t believe the survival of your house through bearing a direct heir would have been worth that price. I cannot.”

Brienne is speechless. Where once Jaime might have teased her for looking rather gormless, instead, he smiles, his eyes gently crinkling as they hold her own. It is twilight, and the soft diffuse warm light gives them both a rather beautiful illusion of life.

“I can’t remember the last time in my life I have felt so content in my life, as writing this book with you, Brienne.” She looks as if she would interrupt, so he raises his hand. “I know you probably think me mad and just on a rebound from Cersei or getting lost in the story of your past, or some combination.” He tilts his head, considering. “It might even be true. All I know, is that I am glad every time I see you and am sadder when you leave. Now that we’ve completed your life’s story…what’s next?” He looks at her, open and a little hopeful.

“Oh, Jaime.” She raises her hand as if to touch his cheek, but stops herself. “Jaime, I cannot pretend that you do not remind me of him so strongly that sometimes I nearly forget you are not him. It takes my breath away, sometimes. Such as it is. That you have humored my silly moments without mocking me…for the most part,” and here she smiles, “Well, you are as honorable as your namesake in his better moments.”

“But Jaime, I can never forget the last words of my love to me: live. _You_ must live. My life is over, but yours is not. Now _you_ are the younger one with his life ahead of him and I would not let a literal ghost from your ancestor’s past prevent that. I will always be grateful for your companionship, for your friendship. I will be your friend for as long as you will have me. But neither do I want to hold you back. It...” And she struggles both to find the right words and to not find out if ghosts can weep, “It would not be honorable. And while I know you’re not Ser Jaime,” And she spears him in place with her bright sapphire eyes so he is rendered speechless, any protest he that might have been ready to throw to her beached breathless on his lips, “I don’t think you’d ask me to make a dishonorable oath.”

They gaze at each other for who knows how long; it is a moment where time does not matter.

Finally, he sighs and lowers his eyes, breaking first but so very sad. “I would not ask you to do something against your honor or your conscience." There's a moment where he pauses, clearly trying for words, for something. "Goodnight, Brienne." Their eyes lock again for a moment, but he nods in acquiescence and leaves her to the gloaming, shutting the door behind him.

She looks after him, watches the door close, feeling it echo throughout her very self--whatever that is these days. She sees the light go off inside, and whispers, “Good night, Jaime.” She looks up at the constellation of The Crone and prays that she will lift her lamp for her, helping her see some way to resolve this.

Inside, after he's turned off the light, Jaime kicks off his shoes, but instead of falling into bed, drops into the wing chair and contemplates the sword he now knows to be Oathkeeper hanging above the mantle thinking, _“By the Seven, Brienne, what are we going to do?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not totally thrilled with this chapter, but perfect is the enemy of good and I wanted to move this along so that I actually finish the story.
> 
> Just a wee bit of Azor Ahai here if you squint that I can’t really claim credit for. I don’t remember where I saw the theory that it could actually be Brienne, but it’s not mine and kudos to the originator--I think they also posited she was a secret Targaryen, which could also be very interesting (and gratifying, if I'm honest because I'm such a Brienne fangirl).
> 
> There may be a bit of a break in posting after this as IRL is thwarting me in all kinds of ways. Will update again as soon as I can!


	12. Read All About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Margaery Tyrell, Generic Receptionist (thought I'd keep this open for fun)
> 
> Jaime goes to sell the story.

The streets of Maidenpool are busy and it feels good to be out, away from Kings Landing, even away from Tarth. It feels like a step forward after a period of having to stand still. Not that Jaime regrets his time with Brienne on Tarth—far from it—but he knows it’s put him in a bit of a holding pattern and it’s time to move forward even just a little bit. He’s still trying to understand exactly what all this means to him, and he can’t quite figure that out objectively when he’s surrounded by her blue waters and her blue eyes.

He finds the doors of LittleFinger Publishing; even growing up in Casterly Rock, Jaime can’t help think that they look rather ostentatious and nouveau riche. They don’t fit the neighborhood or any of the surrounding architecture at all. Someone _might_ be compensating for something. Or some _things_.

When Jaime goes in and approaches the stairs, he notices a rather attractive young woman stop and notice him. He’s quite accustomed to appreciation from all kinds of people, so doesn’t think much of it. He can’t help thinking that were Brienne at his elbow, she’d had huffed a bit or drawn his attention to the onlooker once the coast was clear. So lost in his thoughts about how Brienne would react, Jaime fails to realize the woman follows him up the staircase. 

Jaime takes a breath and puts on his serious Lannister Look™. He knows it doesn’t hurt that he’s tall, broad of shoulder, trim of waist, and nearly impossibly handsome: he knows how to work his physical privilege as well as his social privilege so when he approaches the receptionist, he turns the same megawatt smile on without registering who sits in the chair. He is an equal opportunity exploiter and is not ashamed. So intent on his charm offensive, he doesn’t register the door behind him opening and admitting the young woman he passed on the stairs.

“I would like to see Mr. Baelish. I have something that will interest him,” Jaime says with the full confidence that only a rich, pretty, educated man can have. 

To his surprise, the receptionist ignores Jaime for the pretty young woman, “I see you’re back, Ms. Tyrell.” The receptionist’s officious tone and manner drops fractionally but are still within the bounds of professional propriety. “Have you decided to wait?”

“Forever, if I must,” she smiles first looking at Jaime, then back to the receptionist with her most charming dimples and demure smile in place. 

Trying to ignore all this superfluous noise, Jaime tries again, now channeling his best patrician look mark II, copyright Tywin Lannister. “I would _like_ to see Mr. Baelish now, please.”

“You can’t see Mr. Baelish now without an appointment,” the receptionist’s face locks into a blandly conciliatory but empty look with hints of glee at shutting Jaime down.

“But I have a manuscript,” Jaime tries again, now abandoning his father’s disdainful, authoritative approach for his own more charming, wheedling attempt, smiling up through his hair, eyebrows raised just so. 

The receptionist is not impressed at all and sounds bored. “So you have a manuscript. _MOST_ unusual.” Nothing’s working.

“No more so than you are rude and troublesome,” the young lady behind Jaime pronounces with much confidence. “Now take the man’s name.”

Sighing deeply and leaving no doubt that this is a _great_ effort, the receptionist looks at Jaime, ignoring his sultry smile. “Mr. Jaime Lannister.”

Both the receptionist and the lady look up at once, meeting eyes, then tactfully looking elsewhere while Jaime dictates his address. “Evenfall Hall, Tarth.” He stops, knowing he’s been recognized and determined to benefit from his unfortunate name and history as much as possible. If he’s honest, he feels a little triumphant. There _might _be some subtle preening. Looking through his rather overlong bangs (he has been on an island, after all), he asks, “Can’t I have just a few minutes with Mr. Baelish? I’ve come all the way in from Tarth and I rather think he’ll be interested in this.”__

__“Oh, no, he probably won’t,” the receptionist walks always after typing in Jaime’s name and going to the inner office. Margaery moves a bit closer._ _

__“Is it a good book?” Margaery asks with a charming but slightly devilish expression, innocence and damnation in a single face. “I hope not another life of Byron,” she huffs. Jaime looks up, a little affronted as he quite likes Byron. “Or a book of dreams,” she smiles sardonically at him. _She and Tyrion would enjoy batting wits_ , he thinks. She is undeterred by his cold look—she revels in it, “Are you trying to give me a hint?” She smiles, moving closer, “Something to do with ice? Captain Cook?”_ _

__Seeing Jaime’s non-reaction to what usually works quite well for her, Margaery tacks slightly and changes direction. She straightens up to her full height (much shorter than he’s used to, Jaime things unwittingly) and unleashes her full force of patronage (a maneuver he would appreciate if he wasn’t so preoccupied), “Is it _so_ important that you meet with Baelish?” He doesn’t recognize _her_ , but he recognizes the signs of wealth, of privilege. She looks somewhat familiar. He really will need talk to his brother because he’s sure he ought to know this woman. She has surely recognized him, realized he does _not_ recognize her and instead of feeling affronted, she is _intrigued_. That’s a dangerous equation._ _

__“Yes, very important.” Jaime doesn’t know what it will mean for him and Brienne once this book is published, but he needs to have enough money to stay at Evenfall—enough money that is not at all connected to the Lannister estate, that is._ _

__The woman smiles, promising a gamut of things from innocent frolicking kittens to…decidedly filthy things that a gentlewoman even in this day and age cannot admit knowledge, let alone understanding, of. She’s pretty and charming, to be sure, but she’s not Brienne. She continues, “Well, then: see him you shall. It’s not only your good fortune that I’m not only irresponsible, but also unreasonable.” She gives him her best conspirator’s grin._ _

__“I don’t understand,” Jaime is genuinely confused._ _

__“I had an appointment for 11 o’clock; I arrived at 10:30 and wouldn’t wait. I’m only here now because I followed you back,” she grins. “So you may have my appointment for which you are just in time.” The grin becomes a 1000 watt smile._ _

__“That’s very good of you,” Jaime prettily says, not forgetting his manners when it suits him or the situation, “But I’m afraid I can’t—”_ _

__“Nonsense!” says Margarey looking up through her eyelashes, “My dear sir, if you will set aside your book of social graces for just long enough to see there’s an opportunity you want very much, by merely indulging a small, natural, selfish instinct.” She looks like a painting with her rosebud mouth composed just so and her roseleaf complexion._ _

__“Without doubt, my lady,” and Jaime feels a little odd invoking this title and tries to temper it with a smile, “You are the most forward gentlewoman I have ever encountered.”_ _

__Margaery is positively smirking. “Without a doubt.” Jaime realizes she is _proud_ of this. He is equally torn between being scandalized (although, really, who is he to judge?) and high-fiving her because if nothing else, he appreciates people who are honest with themselves and others about who they are. _ _

__The door opens and the receptions reappears, gesturing her into the office. “Ms. Tyrell.”_ _

__“Mr. Lannister,” Ms. Tyrell insists, deploying her dimples like large artillery, “It’s _quite_ alright.”_ _

__“No, I couldn’t—” And Margaery pushes Jaime in, quietly but firmly shutting the door behind her. The receptionist runs up to her._ _

__“Hey, now!”_ _

__“He’s _mad_ about you, you know,” She tips the receptionist a wink, which changes everything. “Couldn’t you tell?”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted much sooner than later in attempt to keep this thing moving as opposed to perfect. Thanks to all of you who are still reading. Kudos and comments really do make a huge difference, and big thanks to those who have already done so!
> 
> And for any close readers, yes, I did back-edit that one off-hand allusion to Margaery so I could enlist her here where she will most certainly have far more fun.


	13. Everyday I Sell the Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Petyr Baelish, Margaery Tyrell, receptionist
> 
> Jaime’s mission: to sell the book he wrote with Brienne. (We’ll see some scene and dialogue divergence because Jaime’s and Petyr’s characters are quite different from Lucy’s and the publisher’s.)

Jaime finds himself in a lushly decorated office. It’s not too his taste—it evokes a bordello somehow, but a very expensive one. He’d be impressed at the wealth on display except that he has his father’s office with which to compare it. Mr. Baelish doesn’t look up, but keeps reading the manuscript he’s reviewing and shaking his head. 

“Come in, Ms. Tyrell. Your new book will require some _very_ close work between the two of us to get it ready for the press. It will be _quite_ some time to—” and then he looks up with a seductive glint in his eye only to see Jaime; the glint falls from his expression so quickly, Jaime can practically hear it clink on the desk. Baelish schools his features into neutral lines, while sitting up to command as much physical presence as possible. “Who are you?” He knows his receptionist understands that guarding his door is an essential job function, and considers that his might be someone important. In fact, upon further reflection, he is sure he recognizes his unexpected visitor, but waits for confirmation.

Jaime takes a breath, also drawing himself to his full height and putting on his best bland professional smile. “I’m Jaime Lannister. The lady outside said it was alright, that I might have her appointment.”

Baelish nods internally to himself while putting on gently stern expression, his visitor’s identity confirmed. _This could be useful and_ quite _lucrative if I play my cards right. Just need to figure out how to keep the upper hand._ “She did, did she? Well, it isn’t alright and I’ll ask you to make an appointment; she and I had quite a bit to discuss and it really can’t be delayed.”

“Please, Mr. Baelish.” Jaime is firm, earnest, but not begging. “I simply had to get in to see you.”

The gratitude of a Casterly Rock Lannister—son of Twyin Lannister no less—would not be a bad thing to have, so Baelish lets him continue.

“I have a manuscript.”

Baelish sighs lightly. (He doesn’t want to offend this son of Tywin, just put him in his place a bit and it feels every bit as satisfying as he might imagine.) “Of course you have. Two hundred noble heirs and heiresses writing their memoirs, stories of excess to titillate the public with dreams of wealth and…well. Don’t tell me what’s in it, I know. By the Seven, sir, I’ve published enough of them to stay in business. But I don’t need to read it. Not another one, not even with your name. My current stable is selling quite well.” Baelish can see Jaime cares about his book, so takes a moment to enjoy having the upper hand and vent some of his true thoughts about his core business. He has the only imprint for this sort of self-indulgent, overwrought faff and trusts to Jaime’s own desire to close the deal that Jaime won’t go tattling to his other clients. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’m quite busy,” he says, giving a cold smile and casting the bait in Jaime’s rippling waters, waiting for him to bite. He strides to the door with his hand on the knob.

“Come back here, you sniveling grumpkin!” Brienne’s voice roars through the office and Baelish freezes, looking around for while Brienne’s physique might lead some to mistake her for a man in certain situations or perspectives, her voice is quite feminine. There’s no way Baelish can possibly pin this exclamation on Jaime, but neither is there any other explanation.

“Are you sure we’re not related?” Jaime mutters under his breath so that only Brienne could possibly hear him.

Jaime and Baelish turn around to face each other. Jaime pretends he heard nothing; it seems the safest course, but Baelish’s eyes are wide. The man knows his office and has gone to extensive (illegal) lengths to ensure he is the only one aware of the secret egress, so he is truly confounded. Still, he tries to play it off. “Sir! You seemed such a civilized, reasonable man, too.”

“Oh, I, uh,” Jaime coughs. “I’m terribly sorry Mr. Baelish, I didn’t mean to say that, but you’re all wrong about the book. It isn’t what you think at all: it’s a historical novel, it’s the unvarnished and unexpected story of a lady knight in the War of the Five Kings—based on fact. Brienne of Tarth. In our research, we found mention of your own ancestors, actually—it’s what made me think to approach your publishing house first.” Jaime hates playing the game more than anything, but this is about securing his home with Brienne. And he realizes, more importantly, it’s about helping her secure her legacy. _Their_ legacy, is how he thinks about it if he’s actually honest with himself.

“A knight’s tale—a _female_ knight’s tale, historically accurate? During the War of the Five Kings? House Baelish, even? Hm.” Baelish takes the manuscript and hefts it, testing its weight. He thinks a bit. “I beg your pardon, sir, but what do you know about history? I recognize your name, but I can’t say that I’ve ever heard Lannisters were great historians.”

“A great deal, believe me. The importance of the family name and all. Although I’ll allow my brother Tyrion is more widely knowledgeable than myself; I only claim this narrow area of expertise.”

Baelish sucks his teeth. His interest is indeed piqued, both due to subject matter and the party involved, but he can’t seem too eager: enthusiasm is power. Desire is power, and he needs Jaime Lannister wanting this book deal more than he does so Baelish puts on a rather good pantomime of considering the issue. “Unvarnished, you say?”

Jaime nods.

“Well, perhaps I have time for a _few_ pages seeing as Ms. Tyrell so graciously gave you her appointment. She has a quite discerning instinct for things.” Baelish settles back behind his desk, taking his time to get comfortable. Jaime pulls up a chair to watch and answer any questions that might arise.

It’s absolutely nerve-wracking as Baelish takes his time undoing the twine holding the pages together in their bundle, but not halfway down the first page, Baelish can’t help but raise his eyebrows, pulled in by the tale and the unique voice telling it. One page follows another until he’s gone through at least a third of the thing, turning each nearly as quickly he picks one up.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

A tall, thin, angry man in the reception area berates the receptionist. “I have been waiting here for three hours. I consider it outrageous. As a top financial author for LittleFinger Publishing, just remember: I will have my due.” He stalks off slamming the door behind him, his purple coat and long beard streaming. 

Margaery Tyrell enters and just manages to dodge the man storming out with a small sardonic grin and approaches the receptionist. “Still in there?” she asks with a tilt of her chin, smiling.

“They’ve had lunch sent inside as well. For two.”

“For two?” she asks, eyebrows raised and the receptionist confirms. She nods, considering.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

Baelish has the last page in his hand, looks at it a moment, a small satisfied smile on his face which he eventually raises to regard Jaime. “Well. You’re not going to tell me that you wrote this? Alone? It’s a historian’s book.” He pauses, thinking. “Maybe a woman historian’s book.”

“No. I had help.”

“And what a tale! Is she your wife, Mr. Lannister?” There had been no breath of this in the society pages or gossip rags, but Jaime Lannister had fell off the face of Kings Landing after a blow out with his sister months ago, and this was so out of character, so it wasn’t the idle inquiry it might have seemed.

“Oh…no.” Even with his experience growing up a Lannister, Jaime struggles to find an appropriate expression to match his answer or his feelings. He can’t find one that would do either of these justice, so settles on something blandly blank.

“And your collaborator, I’d like very much to meet…her?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s impossible. She’s away.”

“New research project?” 

“Of course.”

“A very involved project. In Essos.”

Baelish decides to switch gears. “By the Seven, what a story! What a history! I’ll tell you a secret: if I hadn’t had to support myself rather early on, I’d have studied history myself. Instead of sitting here turning out indigestible reading material for a bilious public…of course I’ll publish it, Mr. Lannister. You’ve got the authorization to act for your collaborator as well, I trust?”

“Yes, she’s given me the rights.” Jaime tries to keep his excitement hidden. He needs to close this deal.

“Good. Well, good sir, you’ve presented me with a most enjoyable day. By the Seven, not what I expected at all. You just leave everything to me and be happy that you know such a historian; not many like her these days with humanities being scorned. You appreciate that?”

“Yes, yes, I do.” Jaime knows he appreciates Brienne. More than he knows how to say, and having heard her speak earlier in the office, he throws her his best, most open smile into the room in general as Baelish busies himself with the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Baelish.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Lannister,” Baelish sees Jaime out of his office, shutting the door. It’s a wonder that Baelish can manage to close the door what with all the smugness in his office.

Jaime pauses for a moment as the door shuts behind him and takes a breath, eyes shining. He did it. _They_ did it. The book is bought. He takes another breath and smiling, moves to leave the offices of LittleFinger Publishing, rather in his own world.

The receptionist notices and prompts to the only other person in the waiting area, “Ms. Tyrell?”

“Coming,” she smiles at the receptionist, a perfect balance of cool yet not too cold. But then she follows Jaime out, and it’s raining outside, quite strongly. Jaime’s temporarily taken aback by the downpour and deciding what to do when Margarey intercepts him. “It’s easy to believe why the most beautiful poems about the Stormlands were written by poets living in Dorne at the time,” she smirks at him.

Jaime smiles back, noticing she’s standing quite close. “How do you do?” He responds, using his best prep school manners.

“I’m not a poet, but I _have_ got an umbrella and your hat, I must say, is singularly inadequate to the circumstances.”

“I didn’t bargain for this Seven-cursed rain,” Jaime smiles calmly at the woman he feels he ought to recognize standing at his shoulder. “That is, ahem, I fear I shall be late and miss the last train to home.”

“I could call a cab—I have Lyft.” Her dimples deepen. “If you ask nicely.” 

Jaime gives her a non-committal smile because he doesn’t want to encourage the flirtation, but Margaery’s having none of it and calls the ride. When the car pulls up, she announces the train station and then follows him in. “I need to catch my train home as well,” she smiles. “What a coincidence! I know you won’t mind sharing my cab with me now, will you?” She looks up through her considerable lashes.

Jaime smiles back, friendly but not too friendly, “Not at all.” He looks out the window, but feels Margaery shift beside him, regarding him.

“The word you’re looking for is ‘brass’,” she looks quite pleased with herself.

“Brass?” Jaime can’t leave it without comment, not politely.

“To describe my behavior and me. You don’t approve of either, do you?” She’s still smiling quite confidently. 

“We’ve only just met and it’s not for me to say anyhow, is it?” Jaime continues with an amiable non-commitment. _Tyrion would be so proud,_ he thinks. And he does admire her owning her own forwardness. It suits her. So he turns to her and with a bit more friendliness says, “In a way, I’m grateful to you.”

“Why?” Her rosebud mouth is pursed pensively and her dark eyes gleam. 

“Because Mr. Baelish has agreed to publish my book.”

“Splendid! So the old boy’s developed a weakness for society tell-all books finally after publishing so many? I can’t say that it’s one of mine, although many think it given my background,” she demurely looks down at her lap. 

“This book might surprise you,” Jaime allows himself his first real smile at her. 

“Surprising enough to find a gentleman author infinitely more exciting than his text could possibly be,” and her grin’s gone charmingly wicked as she slides oh so slightly closer Jaime’s form.

Jaime clears his throat and moves to stretch, adding a bit more space between them. “You write, Miss…?”

“My name is Ms. Margaery Tyrell. Yes, I write: children’s books.”

This is unexpected and Jaime can’t help raising an eyebrow and smiling back at her given her constant air of genteel licentiousness. “Children’s books? You? I should like to see one.”

She gives a low laugh, modestly covering her mouth just a little, “I’m afraid you most likely have. I write under the name of Septa Mordane.”

“ _YOU’RE_ Septa Mordane?!” Jaime can’t help himself. 

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” she laughs. “I admit, I stole the name from a friend’s governess.”

“Then all of your cynicism must be nothing but a pose. You’re adored by half the children in the world,” Jaime exclaims, still high on the book deal.

“Septa Mordane is a pose. Deep in my innermost heart, I loathe the little monsters,” she allows. 

“My niece and nephew are not monsters,” Jaime jokes, “And they’d be very excited to know I’ve been talking to their favorite author.”

“I shall make an exception to your niece and nephew then. I look forward to meeting them,” Margaery leans over. “And your wife.”

Jaime is taken a bit aback, thinking how to respond. “My wife…is dead.” It’s true on every account: Cersei is dead to him and Brienne…well. And for all that Ms. Tyrell is very pretty, very rich, very clever, and seems nice enough, Jaime can’t quite find it in himself to be interested. It feels unfair. It feels unfaithful, despite the oath Brienne wrung out of him.

His mood shifts and Margaery reads this with his sigh. “Oh,” she echoes sadly. Pauses. Looks up at him. “Oh?”

Jaime pretends not to notice her increased interest and instead comments on the driver. “I do wish they’d hurry.” 

Margaery smiles, “There’s no rush. We’ll get there in time.” Jaime steadfastly looks out the window and his relief is palpable when they get out of the car and part ways. Margaery tries to delay their parting as much as possible, but this is a social dance to which Jaime knows the steps quite well. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Lannister.”

“Goodbye, Ms. Tyrell, and thank you very much.”

“Farewell,” she says as they move to different platforms, and then she deftly swipes his pocket square to blot her forehead, walking away but not before he can see her flash a wicked smile at him. His returning grin is reflexive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The power dynamics between Jaime and Petyr are actually quite fun to write, Litterfinger’s a skeevy schemer, but he’s a delightful wretch. Show!Margaery is even more fun than I’d imagined. Also: a cameo from a fairly obscure character as the disgruntled financial writer who finds his appointment appropriated.
> 
> Oh, we’re about halfway there! Ohhhh, we’re writing on a prayer.
> 
> Also, given how much the dialogue is transcribed or adapted from the movie, I can’t help notice but films had a much larger vocabulary back in the day! I had a similar realization when I re-read the _Anne of Green Gables_ books for an adolescent lit course way back when.


	14. Ghost Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne going back to Tarth.

Still smiling, Jaime folds into the seat on the train glad to have a compartment to himself. He watches the scenery blur by, further obscured by the rain, his mind wandering. And when the train emerges from a brief tunnel, he finds himself no longer alone.

“I never,” Brienne huffs.

“Well, hello there. You’ve been eavesdropping?”

“A scandalous society memoir?!” Brienne is more outraged than Jaime himself felt back in the office. “What does he mean!”

“He had no way of knowing it was your book. …Although if you think about it, you _were_ high society—well, high-ish society—once. And it is a memoir. And your life _was_ rather scandalous.” Jaime’s grin deepens and because a shade more evil with each addendum. “Funny what a historical distance of a few hundred years can do to perspective with these kinds of things.”

“Brass, she says! Hmph. I’ll polish her brass. The way she was smirking at you, like a cat at the fishmonger’s. Some things never change. You should have…” Only she isn’t sure what she thinks Jaime should have done.

“What, slapped her face?” Jaime laughs. “It’s the twenty-first century, Brienne. Things have changed. Women are allowed to be as forward as they like. Well, rich, pretty ones, can at least.” He leans over and flutters his eyelashes up at her. “Still worried about protecting my virtue?” She glares at him, but he continues, “And anyhow, I found her rather charming,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows and challenging Brienne to rise to the bait.

“ ‘Rather charming,’ now you’re starting to talk like her,” she sniffs. 

“Well, how in the Seven do you want me to talk?” he asks peaceably and then takes on a superior tone, looking at her down his nose. “I think you’re being extremely childish.” He doesn’t often get the moral high ground and so he plans to enjoy it.

“I’m only trying to protect you from your own worst instincts.”

“I’ll manage my own instincts, thank you.”

“What made you lie to her?”

“I didn’t lie to her.”

“You did. You told her your wife was dead.”

The balance shifts, and Jaime’s a little uncomfortable. “It…it just came into my head. I had to say something.”

Brienne raises her eyebrows at him. “You should have stuck closer to the truth; let her know you’d…what do you call it these days? When you spurn a lover?”

“A break-up.” 

“That, then.”

He thinks a bit. “I hope she doesn’t Google me. I guess I can make up a secret marriage if she asks.”

“Anyhow, you shouldn’t have accepted the ride. It puts you in her debt.”

“And Lannisters always pay their debts, yes.” Jaime is thoughtful for a moment, and then moves to attack. “Why, Brienne,” Jaime is grinning again, “I do believe you’re jealous!”

“Of course I’m not jealous, Jaime. You think I’m a silly simpering girl? Besides, jealousy is a disease of the flesh.”

“I’ve never known you to be so disagreeable,” he prods. “And today of all days!”

“What’s so wonderful about today?”

“The book, Brienne! Mr. Baelish bought the book.”

“Of course he liked it. It plays to his vanity and delusions of grandeur.”

“But now I can buy Evenfall,” he crows…but Brienne has gotten quiet, looking out the train window. Jaime switches over to her side of the car, sits next to her leaning in. “Just like we planned?” 

“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for you to buy Evenfall after all,” she says quietly.

“Brienne, c’mon.”

“I suppose being a man, you can’t help it.”

“Can’t help what?”

“Dealing so with a woman such as that.”

“Brienne, will you stop sulking? You yourself said I should mix with people, that I should see…women.” This conversation is moving as quickly as the train they ride in, building up steam, but threatening to run off the rails.

“I said women, not perfumed parlor snakes. I know her of old.”

Jaime’s not sure why he’s defending Margaery as he doesn’t think he’s really interested in her. He is, however, curious to hear Brienne continue. “Know her or her ancestor?” He gives her a pointed look and the tension builds even further. “She seems a very nice woman. Anyway, it’s unlikely I’ll see her again.”

Just then, a fellow traveler opens the door the car they’re riding in. Brienne bellows, “Move on, Stranger take you! There’s no room.”

The man looks deeply affronted, “I beg your pardon, sir!” and slams the door behind him.

Jaime captures Brienne’s eyes, his own dancing with mischief and he starts laughing. Brienne finds herself betrayed by her own face, a smile breaking through and she cannot suppress a giggle, and the atmosphere in the train car deflates. They laugh all the way back to Tarth.


	15. Painted Into a Corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Margaery, and Brienne. Myrcella and Tommen finally make a brief cameo in passing because plot.
> 
> Jaime and Margaery have a not-so-chance encounter after he takes the kids to the beach. Brienne and Jaime discuss. Drama ensues.
> 
> Apologies for the anachronism, but artists aren’t really mentioned at all in ASIOF or in GOT.

He’s thrilled to have Myrcella and Tommen visiting for a month. Cersei’s away with her new boyfriend in Dorne and has finally acquiesced to Jaime’s requests that they come see his new home. He’s relieved that they both love Tarth and Evenfall with its great trails and being so close to a beach. They’ve made friends with one of the locals Jaime trusts, a Mr. Goodwin. Goodwin offers to show the kids the best crabbing spots and offers to watch them so Jaime can get some time to himself. He gladly accepts.

It’s a beautiful day on Tarth and Jaime decides to make the most of it by walking one of the many trails from that follows the rocky shoreline. After an hour or so, he turns back and approaches a particularly picturesque spot not too far from Evenfall, noticing a handkerchief caught in a bush alongside the path. He picks it up as it looks familiar—just the like the pocket square that Ms. Tyrell absconded with as they parted at the train station. Upon closer inspection, he is _sure_ it’s his pocket square, which can mean only one thing: Ms. Tyrell is or was nearby at some point. 

He notices the path widening into a bit of clearing in front of him, so he continues to stroll along, still clutching the bit of cloth. There he finds Ms. Tyrell painting en plein air. She notices him, covers the canvas, stands, and smiles. “Life is just one coincidence after another, isn’t it?”

“Thank you for returning my pocket square, Ms. Tyrell, however unconventionally.”

“Well, I am rather unconventional myself. I feel rather ashamed for having taken it,” she smiles demurely at him through her lashes.

“You should be,” Jaime retorts amiably.

“Only as a writer of course: it’s such an obvious device.” 

“And in questionable taste.”

“Very necessary.”

“I don’t see why.”

“I wanted to have something of you until I saw you again,” and Margaery’s countenance trades its mischievous light for a more considering look.

Jaime isn’t quite sure how to respond. He’s used to people flirting with him, but in the past, he’d never been interested: he had Cersei. But now? Brienne springs to mind unbidden; it feels almost disloyal, unworthy to flirt back with Ms. Tyrell, but then the oath Brienne made him make about living his life the fullest extent also presents itself. 

Jaime’s hesitation shows plainly on his face and Margaery isn’t quite sure what to make of it. As a scholar of body language, she’s generally quite adept at discerning the feelings of others. What she reads here is not complete disinterest, nor is Jaime playing coy or shy. _Hmmmm, a challenge._

He decides to break the moment by gesturing to her painting. “You’re quite accomplished, aren’t you? I should think being Septa Mordane would satisfy anyone.”

“No, I also paint. Under the name of Renoir,” she smirks.

“You’re practically a court jester.”

“That’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she smiles.

“And what, if anything, do you do as Margaery Tyrell?”

“Play the fool, generally; specifically, I behave quite idiotically towards certain gentlemen I fall in love with while passing on a stair,” her expression melting from humor to something more ardent, but still with a hint of humor.

“Ms. Tyrell, please,” Jaime tries to strike a balance between affable and serious. He still hasn’t untangled how he feels at the moment and he doesn’t want to encourage her. She’s beautiful and wealthy—he knows his father would likely approve, but Jaime isn’t sure if he’s ready for a relationship, or if he even wants one. 

“I have no illusions about my conduct. Am I being unforgivably offensive, Jaime?” Margaery moves forward, her voice deepening a shade.

“Jaime?”

“That’s your name.”

“It’s—it’s just been a while since anyone called me that,” and it’s true—no one aside from Brienne that is since Tyrion’s been incommunicado due work these past months. The thought brings him back to himself. “No, you’ve done nothing really unforgiveable, it’s just that I’m not…” and he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Margaery begins to feel a soft glow of triumph as he’s not told her to get lost. She capitalizes on the moment. “Come look at my canvas,” she says as she uncovers it.

Jaime moves closer to look and is shocked. “It’s _me!_ ”

Margaery moves to just behind his shoulder. “Not too bad, is it?”

“I think it’s very flattering.” That at least, is full truth. 

“You’d need a thousand Renoirs to do you justice,” and Margaery moves in for the kill, lightly kissing him on the lips. Jaime gently but firmly breaks the kiss and steps away. 

“That _was_ unforgiveable, wasn’t it? But I would rather not go away, even if you send me. And I shall see you again, even if you forbid it.”

“I’m sure I have no control over where you go or what you do.”

“Then you won’t forbid it,” she asks softly.

Jaime thinks for a moment, barely shakes his head no. His head is buzzing. “I’m sorry, I have to go,” Jaime turns and walks away towards the house, Margaery smiling to herself, watching him leave.

Jaime walks faster than usual trying to clear his head and get a handle on his jumbled emotions when after passing a large tree he hears a familiar voice, “So you’ve been kissed by a woman determined to have you all over again.”

“You’ve been spying on me.”

“I merely happened to be passing in the vicinity.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why did you let her?” Brienne is curious, her tone carefully neutral.

“I didn’t. She took me unawares.”

“Ser, since the Maiden looked upon the Warrior, no man has ever been taken completely unawares.” 

Jaime’s hackles go up a bit. “Just what do you mean to insinuate by that?” 

“When a man allows himself to be kissed, it’s because deep down, he wants to be kissed.”

“That is nothing but feminine conceit.”

“Not unless it’s true,” she parries with a small smile. They are still for a moment. “Well, now what happens?”

“She’ll stay or she’ll go. I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel about it, to be honest.”

“I think it matters to you more than you’ll admit. Isn’t that so, Jaime?”

“Why bother to ask me, Brienne? You seem to know my mind better than I do.” He is both annoyed and not annoyed by this. Another pause. “You don’t like her, do you?”

“She is very sly in her conversation.”

“Many women are.”

“And she watches your expressions very closely when she speaks to you. It nearly drove me out of the train station.”

“You shouldn’t have been there in the first place.” He pins her with a stern look and Brienne looks a little abashed.

“You can find an excuse for everything.”

“Only because you’re attacking her, Brienne.”

“I know. It’s only a natural human reaction.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so superior just because you’re…not alive.”

“And she is—very much so.” Brienne’s expression’s gone thoughtful. What kind of thoughts, Jaime’s not quite sure.

“It’s no crime to be alive.”

“No, ser, but sometimes it’s a great inconvenience. The living can be hurt.”

“I don’t intend to be hurt.”

“No knight intends to fall to bandits, but it happens.”

“You said yourself I should go about in the world. That means taking risks.”

“I know, Jaime.” Brienne meets his eyes calmly, though her eyes are a little sad. “Real happiness is worth almost any risk, and you deserve to be happy, but be careful. There may be trouble ahead.”

“I will, Brienne.” He smiles warmly at her, holding her eyes for a moment, and then turns to continue his walk, while Brienne watches him walk away, lost in her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s almost complete in draft form. I had to do some very subtle back-editing to make the final movement work (points to anyone who spots it; it’s evident in this chapter)—another danger of posting as you go: sometimes the details make a big difference! Thanks for sticking with it this far.


	16. So Much to Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peck & Jaime and then Jaime & Margaery
> 
> Peck has his say and Jaime and Margaery come to an understanding. 
> 
> The angst train has arrived in the station with a vengeance. It will get better, though, so hang in there! Only two more chapters after this.

Jaime can’t seem to clear his head this morning. He’s been dreaming of the War of the Five Kings again, and he blames the book. After all, finding out his namesake was at the heart of the conflict was something of a shock, and clearly his subconscious has decided to chew over the many parallels between them, moving beyond what showed up in the novel.

Cersei makes painful appearances some nights. He recalls dreaming they were hiding in a tower room when a young boy climbing outside catches them coupling with the ardent passion they used to know, so he pushes the boy out the window without a thought aside from, _“The things I do for love.”_ In the daylight, it’s awful but in his dream, all he thinks about is keeping Cersei and their children safe. His waking stomach twists at the thought when he remembers both sets of their golden children. Other times, he dreams about the two of them as children switching places to fool the household, an innocent game: he playing at being a lady while Cersei plays at swords. In yet other dreams, he and Cersei are estranged as well, anger and resentment a thick chain of twisted love binding them together past their desire to be connected. But even when the dreams invoke pleasanter moments of love and affection, they leave a bad taste in his mouth and he is troubled for the rest of the day.

Other nights, he dreams of the Lady of Tarth. She looks just like her portrait. Well, no surprise there. But her living eyes are luminous and utterly compelling. Sometimes they are fighting in blizzard conditions, side-by-side, she on his right. (It’s another curious thing: in his non-historical dreams, he always has two hands, but in these dreams, rarely.) He dreams of sitting opposite from her in a big bath, her eyes alarmed and guarded as he confesses his darkest sins, the loss of his hand a new and raw thing, and fainting into her strong, gentle arms. He dreams of jumping into a bear pit to save her. He dreams of cold nights sitting at a campfire, sometimes with other fighters, sometimes just the two of them. The best times, he dreams of her in his arms, held tight, huddled under blankets and furs, his nose buried between her neck and mighty shoulder, her hands on his own (and stump), wrapped around her middle. He wakes from those dreams with a glad heart, though he is unsure why.

Last night, he dreamt of the Lady of Tarth, and he finds himself in a good mood.

Peck comes in to put away Jaime’s dry cleaning and rolls his eyes at Margaery’s portrait of Jaime, now hanging on the wall next to the portrait of Brienne. He turns to Brienne’s portrait and nods. Peck’s rather fond of the painting of the dour lady knight who wears the impressive sword hanging on the adjoining wall. She has dignity, honor.

Jaime enters. “Hello, Peck.”

“Hello, Lannister.”

“Like my picture?”

“Nope.”

Jaime laughs. “That’s honest, anyway.”

“It’s indecent, that’s what it is. Your ego, I mean. You certainly don’t need any help there. Her painting you after one meeting like a, I don’t know what, and then tracking you down?” Peck coughs, “Stalker.”

“Oh, come, Peck. This is the 21st century! We must rid ourselves of our old fetishes and taboos.”

“Ooooh, learned a lot of new words. Been emailing with your brother?”

“We’re never too old to learn,” Jaime sniffs good humoredly.

“Nor to make fools of ourselves, either. ‘Septa Mordane.’ If she’s a septa, then I’m a brother from the Quiet Isle. Humph. When I asked Myrce and Tom about what they thought about her and her books, they had no idea what I was talking about.” Peck throws a pointed look at Jaime, then shakes his head, sucking his teeth. 

_Enough._ Jaime moves to stand in front of Peck and stops him as he continues to make the bed. “Alright, my lad: let’s have it.”

“What’s she want with you?”

“Well, I think that’s rather obvious. You’re a man of the world.” Jaime winks.

“And you’d be willing to…?”

“I might. Why shouldn’t I?”

And it does take Peck a moment to consider. Lannister is handsome and single; Ms. Tyrell is very pretty and charming. Something just sticks in his craw and Peck has enough history with Jaime to speak his mind. He goes for the low hanging fruit since he really can’t say anything against her. “Because she isn’t good enough for you, that’s why not. She’s the kind of woman no decent man would associate with. Have you seen the tabloids?”

Jaime’s smile slips, he is now well and truly peeved. “And am I a decent man according to the tabloids? Really, Peck, you ought to know better. What right have you to talk like that?”

“Well, I’ve got a right to my own feelings and I’ve got a feeling about her.”

Jaime trusts Peck, but he’s giving him nothing to work with. It just sound prejudiced. “Really? Why? Can you point to one real reason why?”

Peck sighs, turning away. “I’m sorry, Lannister. It’s just that I’ve been worried about you lately. You were doing so well while you were writing the book—I haven’t seen you so happy and, I don’t know, complete? content? since before everything went to the Seven Hells. But you haven’t been yourself since you sold the book.”

“Oh, Peck, there’s nothing to worry about. I know she isn’t perfect. Perhaps she’s conceited, and erratic, even childish…but she’s real.”

Peck is confused. “Real?” 

“I thought I was impervious to emotion, a respectable retired veteran with a niece and a nephew and a hide like an aurochs, but I’m not. I need a woman’s companionship and laughter and all the things a man needs.” He thinks, pauses. It’s a credit to the deep bond the two men have that he voices his thoughts. “I suppose I need love.”

Peck looks a bit mollified, if doubtful. “Well, I hope she can give it to you.”

Jaime claps Peck on the shoulders and turns him around to face the door. “Now suppose you go downstairs and make us both a cup of tea? I’ll finish up here.”

“Yessir,” Peck turns his head as he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Jaime turns around and walks over to Oathkeeper hanging on the wall, then turns to his portrait. He considers it for a moment or so before turning to Brienne’s hanging next to it, her deep blue eyes mesmerizing him, even in pigment. 

“Well, Brienne. Haven’t you anything to say?” The room remains silent. “For a change?” He tries to needle her, but hearing no response, Jaime turns to the French doors to stare at the sea.

* ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ *

The evening is clear, the moon is full, and the stars are brilliant. Jaime and Margaery are ignoring the starlight because they are caught up in a passionate embrace.

As they come up for air, Margaery asks him, “Happy?”

“I’ve never felt like this before.” This is true. His feelings for Cersei were so different than what he feels for Margaery. He still can’t quite put a pin in what he feels for her, but it does feels good to be held, to be wanted, to have some warmth. 

“How?” She asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me.” She is nothing if not insistent and she senses something of Jaime’s reticence and wants to slay it once and for all.

“Like looking down from high up, dizzy and unsure.”

“You won’t fall. I’ll hold you.”

“It isn’t right. It can’t be, to feel like this.” He is quiet a moment, almost waiting to hear another voice in the still night air. “I don’t know.”

“It _is_ right because you’re happy,” she smiles up at him. Jaime returns her smile briefly, but it’s not nearly as sure as hers. He gently disengages himself and walks a few paces towards the house to look up at the stars. He notices the light in the kitchen go out.

“Peck’s gone up. It’s the children’s bedtime.”

“Just this once, pretend you’ve forgotten.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Just this one night.”

“There will be so many nights, Marg. I don’t get to see them very often.” He looks at her. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m jealous. I’m even jealous of two children.”

“But they’re my niece and nephew. I can’t just forget my duty to them.”

“When you’re with me, I want you to forget about everyone else in the world: your duty and what the world will say.” Something about this sentiment strikes him as very, very wrong, but the thought doesn’t quite coalesce in his mind which is a bit befuddled with the smell of night-blooming jasmine, the softness of her arms, and the after effects of their earlier kiss.

“I think you must be a magician: you make it seem alright to forget my duty and all wrong to—”

Here Margaery stops his words with a long, deep kiss and he lets her.

Unseen and unfelt by either, Brienne watches from the shadows, stoic except for her eyes, which are sad. Even in this world, this life, Margaery manages to snare the man she loves with beauty, charm, and daring. But she is dead, and the man she loves yet lives after a fashion. With the talk of duty, she does not forget her own even if Jaime seems to have forgotten his: she truly does want Jaime to find some happiness. He was so lonely when they met again in Evenfall. He was lonely when they met at Riverrun as well, come to think of it. All Jaime’s ever wanted was to be loved for who he is. Maybe this is his chance. She can do this for him, leave him alone to find some joy and warmth. After all, she cannot touch him and she remembers from her own life how cold and small was a touchless existence. 

She leaves them to their solid, warm togetherness, and dissipates into the night air.

* ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ *

Jaime dreams.

He is watching the Lady of Tarth ride away from him in sapphire blue armor, Oathkeeper at her side. She turns back, looking at him over her shoulder, her eyes stoic, but so very sad. His own arm (ending in a ridiculous golden hand) is raised in farewell and he feels a sense of loss. The dream shifts and they face each other over a campaign table in a battlefield tent, sparring with words instead of swords, longing for something unsaid. While his golden hand is heavy, it is not a weight between them. The weight they play tug-of-war with is not something that can be seen or touched. _But since when can the tie between us be seen or touched?_ he muses halfway upon waking. She floats away from him, again, turning back, watching him as she drifts away and all he can do is raise his bloody golden hand in an inadequate farewell.

He shifts restlessly in his sleep.

* ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ *

Brienne’s heart hurts in a way it hasn’t for centuries. To see Jaime again, alive and so completely separate from her, for him to not know her, it is so hard. Despite this, he has developed some semblance of kindness for her, and she is so grateful for this ghost of what they had once had. She has been contemplating Oathkeeper on the wall for hours, drawing both comfort in that she _was_ once truly loved by this man and strength from this concrete reminder of her honor and duty.

After a time, she turns around. Jaime is blissfully sprawled out across his bed, snoring gently and it’s everything she can do to not reach out and brush the hair from his face. (Not that she could do so easily—touching anything as a ghost takes a great deal of energy that winks her out of her meagre attempts at manifestation.) 

She whispers to herself, “Oh, Jaime. I thought you’d have more sense, but you’re like you always were: a fool for any strong woman who you think might love you—one who will take everything you have to give.”

Jaime stirs in his sleep, unconsciously turning towards her.

“Don’t trouble yourself, my love. It’s not your fault. I should have known this story could not end well for us.” Brienne’s wide broken-toothed smile shines with her resigned affection. Her eyes shine with her fond despair. 

“You’ve made your choice, the only choice you _could_ make: you’ve chosen life, and that’s as it should be, whatever the reckoning. And that’s why I’m going away, my love. I can’t help you now. I can only confuse you more and destroy and chance you have of happiness. You _must_ make your own life amongst the living. And whether you meet good fortune or foul, find your own way to safety in the end.”

She cannot cry, but her eyes are luminous with the feelings of love and pain and sadness and want that seek to overwhelm her. She indulges herself by coming closer yet to his sleeping form, and bends over him, her eyes full.

“Jaime, my love. Listen to me. Listen, my love. You’ve been dreaming. Dreaming of a lady knight who haunted this house, of the talks you had with her, even a book you both wrote together. But Jaime, _you wrote the book_ , you, and no one else: a book you imagined from the house, from her picture on the wall, from her sword and shield. It’s been a dream, Jaime, and in the morning and the years after, you’ll only remember it as a dream. It will die, as all dreams must die: with waking.” 

She leaves the ghost of a kiss on his temple and walks to the open French doors. She doesn’t see Jaime smile softly in slumber. She turns back to him then.

“How you would have loved to have seen Winterfell after we won, to see how Tyrion saved the realm with his wit AND from the back of a dragon! Seen the first snowdrops push through the drifts after that long winter, the birth of Sansa’s and Tyrion’s children in the spring…oh, what we missed, Jaime! What we both missed.” After the many centuries, Brienne learns for sure and certain that ghosts are not capable of crying. But she remembers the feeling, the sensation. 

“Goodbye, my love.” And with that, she fades away to nothing, the French door closing itself gently.

Jaime doesn’t stir; he has dropped into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just stick with it, okay? It's all drafted, so there should be no more back edits, hurrah! Thanks again to those who are following!


	17. Every Rose Has Its Thorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peck, Jaime, Baelish, our generic receptionist, and _dun dun DUUUUUN!_ a mystery character! (If you know the movie and ASOIAF/GoT, you’ve probably guessed who this will be, but I’ll save updating the character tags until I finish this thing to keep the surprise just in case.)
> 
> In which Peck is puckish, Jaime takes care of some book business, and some more home truths are revealed. Much drama ensues.

“Peck, listen to this! It’s from Mr. Baelish. It’s about the book I’ve written. Our check for your advance royalties of 100,000 dragons as you requested.”

“You mean to tell me they paid good money for that?”

“Peck, have you been reading my book?”

“I’m supposed to dust in here and what falls under my eye falls under my eye.”

“I’m surprised at you, it’s like eavesdropping.”

“I’m surprised at you, such romantic nonsense!”

“Well, if you’re writing about the last heir of a noble house fighting societal expectations as well as the undead of legend, romance is inevitable.”

“She’d have a hard time living up to your idea of her.”

“Mr. Baelish wants me to come into town to sign some papers, but I can’t possibly leave here now just when…”

“Just when what?” 

“I’m expecting Margaery. We’re having a picnic.”

“You mean she is.”

Jaime dusts off the tone of command he used back in his military days. “I heard that, Peck. Please remember that we’re quite serious and she’s not going anywhere.”

“Yessir,” Peck snaps to attention, half out of habit, half out of trying to diffuse the tension that’s built between then.

“By the way, I’ve been thinking we might put that portrait of Lady Tarth up in the attic.”

Peck raises his eyebrows. “Don’t you like it anymore?”

“It was a silly idea to hang it in here. I don’t know what possessed me. She’s striking, I’ll give her that, and she does have astonishing eyes. Atmosphere I suppose. I’ve been having such odd, realistic dreams about the War of the Five Kings and the picture’s probably not helping.”

“Yessir,” Peck thinks a moment. “I’ll hang it in my room if you don’t mind.”

Now it’s Jaime’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Of course not.” Although maybe a little piece of his does mind—is that _jealousy_? Surely not. He can’t imagine why he should object however, and so says nothing.

“Perhaps you can get Ms. Tyrell to paint you one of herself instead,” he snipes half-joking, half-serious and shuts the door behind him before Jaime can respond.

Jaime shakes his head, wondering what’s gotten into the man and decides to sit down to his email and respond to Baelish.

_Mr. Baelish, I find I am unable to leave Tarth this week and hope that you_

Peck comes in and hands Jaime a note. “Margaery’s office left a message.”

Jaime takes the note and reads it. “How terrible, Margaery’s been detained in Maidenpool for a few days.”

“What’s so terrible about that?” Peck asks as blandly as possible and again quickly leaves before Jaime can respond, shutting the door behind him. Jaime still can’t figure out exactly what Peck has against Margaery. His own Pia isn’t exactly a shrinking violet or septa.

Jaime sighs, then thinks, and goes back to this computer where he deletes the draft email to Baelish. Looks like he will be going to Maidenpool, but perhaps he doesn’t have to give up seeing Margaery this week after all.

* ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ *

Jaime signs the last of the papers Baelish has presented him with a flourish. “There,” he says feeling rather satisfied with himself. “Is that all, Mr. Baelish?”

“Except to deposit the checks to your account when they come in,” Baelish smiles unctuously. (Jaime is beginning to suspect the man can’t do anything without making it seem as if it’s coated in oil.) “I congratulate you, Mr. Lannister. And I congratulate your research collaborator, too.”

Jaime winces internally. “Oh, the researcher.” He’s not sure why the mention of this little white lie bothers him. He feels a touch of, what, dishonor? No, not for this, surely?

Baelish continues, “And I intend to hold you to your promise to introduce us someday. I would love to learn more about what she found out about my family.”

“I _did_ promise, didn’t I?” Jaime manages to reply noncommittally. “You know, some day when I’ve known you a little longer, I’ll tell you the truth about the researcher.” He flashes his best golden smile at Baelish, “Goodbye, and thank you again.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Lannister.”

Jaime leaves Baelish’s office and nearly LittleFinger Publishing when a thought occurs to him. He turns to the receptionist, that golden smile back in place.

“Would you please give me Ms. Tyrell’s address?”

“Margaery Tyrell?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“We’re collaborating on a new book together and since I’m in town, I wanted to drop off some notes.”

“Well…” The receptionist looks at Jaime’s assured smile, remembers Ms. Tyrell’s prior behavior regarding Mr. Lannister, and gives in. “Here it is, Mr. Lannister. Number 1 Highgarden Street.”

“Thank you so much.” And off he goes to leave a note for her to welcome her home with when she gets back from out of town.

* ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ *

Jaime decides to walk because it’s such a beautiful day and Margaery’s townhouse isn’t too far off. It is stately and expensive, and has an impressive rose garden out front. While many colors are represented, golden roses dominate and they are in full bloom.

Jaime rings the bell and a maid answers the door. “Yessir?”

“I’d like to see Ms. Tyrell, please.”

“Yessir,” the maid opens the door and admitting Jaime. “What name, please, sir?”

“It’s Mr. Jaime Lannister.”

The maid gestures to a sitting room just off the hallway, curtsies, and goes off to report the visitor. “Will you wait in there, please?” 

Jaime saunters over to the sitting room, which is rich and tastefully decorated. He notices a number of portraits on the wall where two men figure predominantly. One includes two small children, a boy and a girl. Jaime is studying one when a handsome, dark-haired man enters the room. He is very neat in appearance and is dressed in very expensive, very fashionable clothing. His hair is styled just so. He looks like he might have stepped off a photo shoot for a gentleman’s magazine. 

“Mr. Lannister? The maid said you wanted to see my wife.” He smiles, crinkling his bright blue eyes. “Perhaps I can help you? Renly Baratheon.” He offers his hand to shake, which Jaime takes reflexively. The hand is warm and the shake is a good one: solid and firm.

“Husband?” Jaime just manages to keep his tone of voice calm and even, although some surprise manages to shine through.

“Or, if you don’t mind waiting, she should be back soon,” Renly gestures to the sofa. “She’s taken the children to the park. They’ve been abroad at school the past few months and have just returned. Marge’s making up for lost time. Please sit down,” he gestures, taking a seat next to Jaime who has no choice but to take his place on the sofa. Margaery’s husband continues easily, “If you’re a friend of Marge’s, you know how fond she is of the children.”

Up through this point, the man’s tone has been easy and friendly, but he notices the blank look on Jaime’s face, and the quality of his silence. Renly’s look changes, questioning. “You _are_ a friend of hers, aren’t you?”

“I—I’m a writer. We—Ms. Tyrell and I have the same publisher,” Jaime manages to eke out. 

Renly is looking at him speculatively, but his expression is still amiable. “How exciting. I don’t often meet one of Marge’s literary friends.” There’s a beat. “You’ll wait for her, won’t you? I expect her back any minute and we’ll have tea.” _Oh yes, one way or another, there_ will _be tea,_ thinks Renly.

“No, I’ll go. I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake.”

“Mistake, Mr. Lannister?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I forgot I had another…engagement.” Jaime gets up and begins to leave the room, but Renly stops him with a gentle, but firm hand on his arm.

“I think I understand, and I’m sorry—truly I am. You see, it isn’t the first time something like this has happened. I’ve told her a hundred times she needs to be upfront with her …friends. It’s a political marriage that we entered into to satisfy our duty to furthering our respective family dynasties. As a Lannister, I’m sure you understand?”

Renly’s expression is honest and open. He sees Jaime is still processing this information, so he continues. “We’re not even lovers—I’m actually with Marge’s brother Loras. Since he and I can’t get married in Westeros, and Marge and I have similar ambitions and tastes, our marriage was the perfect compromise. We conceived using in vitro fertilization. She’s quite independent and I think she appreciates having a husband who lets her pursue her own interests. _All_ her own interests,” Renly says with a playfully pointed look. “It’s unorthodox, I know, but it works for her, me, and Loras.” His look turns considering. “Maybe it could work for you, too?” 

Jaime schools his face into a pleasant blankness. “That’s very kind of you. I appreciate your honesty and frankness, but…I've been someone's secret before, and I won't do that again. I think I ought to go.”

Renly’s not at all surprised (although perhaps a touch disappointed), and smiles a little sadly at Jaime, showing him out. They shake hands again. On the step, Renly says, “Hey, I understand it’s a lot to process, but you’re welcome to stop by any time.” 

Jaime scrounges up a smile and nods, “Thanks. I’ll remember that. Have a great day,” and then slowly walks away, the door shutting behind him. The roses are suddenly cloying and overwhelming in the merciless sun, and his jacket catches on thorns on his way out.

* ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ *

That night, Jaime restlessly paces on bedroom balcony watching the moonlight paint the surf.

It’s late, but Peck’s worried; Jaime’s been awfully quiet since he got back from Maidenpool and told Peck it was over between Margaery and him in a matter-of-fact tone. He walked the trails all afternoon, picked at dinner, and has been upstairs ever since. He’d consider tipping off Tyrion, but the cell reception in the Summer Isles is notoriously spotty, even in Ebonhead. Instead, Peck makes a hot toddy with some very nice rum and uses that as an excuse to check on Jaime. He lets himself outside.

“Come on in, Lannister. I’ve made you an extra strong hot toddy with that spiced rum Tyrion sent.”

Jaime turns to him with an odd look on his face. There’s sadness there, but maybe also…relief? But Jaime doesn’t say anything, only nods. He still doesn’t move, his eyes drawn back to the ebb and flow of the tide.

“She isn’t worth it, blast her. She isn’t worth it. C’mon.”

Jaime shakes his head as if to clear it, pats Peck on the shoulder in gratitude and allows him to shepherd him inside his toddy. He looks at the blank space where the Lady Knight’s portrait had hung, the portrait Margaery painted of him, and finally, to Oathkeeper (that is what he decided to call the sword in his book that he based off of this one, after all). Peck’s on his way out the door, but Jaime stops him. 

“Peck,” he gestures to his own portrait. “Let’s get this silly thing off the wall and stick it in the attic.” Peck laughs, agreeing, and they take it off the wall, leaving it out in the hall for Peck to take up. Jaime pauses again. “You know, I rather miss the Lady Tarth glowering at me. Would you mind it terribly much if I took her back for the night to keep me company?”

“Not at all, sir. I’ll get her back up on the wall in a jiffy.” Peck takes this as a good omen and goes about his chores cheerfully. Once he’s got the painting situation sorted, he looks around Jaime’s room glowing with satisfaction. He gives Jaime an encouraging smile and leaves.

That night, Jaime sleeps surprisingly well although he couldn’t say if it was the double toddy or the dreams of campfire and battle camaraderie with a certain blue-eyed warrior woman that did the trick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There _might_ be a light at the end of the tunnel of the angst train. MAYBE. Read on, McDuff!


	18. These Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Peck, _finally_ Brienne again, and a cameo by Mr. Varys, real estate agent extraordinaire.
> 
> Wash Day. Also, Jaime remembers. He is not pleased about forgetting in the first place and has some opinions. Endgame!

Jaime goes walking along the beach stopping to notice where Goodwin carved Myrcella’s and Tommen’s names last summer into one of the pier posts when they’d visited, which makes him smile. It’s nice to have some memories of them here where he lives now, something completely untouched by Cersei or the rest of the Lannister fortune. _The Warrior Maid of Tarth_ has been at the top of the Kings Landing Times Best Seller List for nine months and sales are still going strong. He’s starting to think about what his next book will be.

Jaime comes back through the kitchen where Peck is ironing.

“Where you been?” Peck is curious, not worried.

“Just walking.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of walking lately. Training for something?”

“Just civilian life. It’s nice to climb sand dunes without a 80 lb. backpack.”

“Ha! Just so. Well, you look like you got a bit of sun. You’ve got just enough time for a nap before dinner.”

Peck has become a bit of a mother hen in his own civilian life, but having not had a mother for a while himself, Jaime doesn’t mind since Peck’s able to mock them both of them in the process. It’s familiar and comforting. Cersei, for her own fierce brand of motherhood, never extended that kind of care or tenderness to Jaime. They move upstairs together, Peck to put away the ironing, Jaime to indulge in a rare afternoon nap.

“Peck, do you realize what day this is?” 

“Wash day,” he retorts instantly.

“Yes, but it was exactly a year ago that we came here. We went up these stairs together and then I pinched my finger in the balcony door. Remember?”

“Yessir.”

“Then I had a dream.”

“I remember you telling me about it.”

“It was a very strange dream. The first of many strange dreams.”

“Now then, off with your jacket: I’m done pressing things today.” Jaime nods shrugging out of his jacket reaching for one of the good wooden hangers, and Peck leaves, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll call you in an hour,” leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.

Jaime hangs his jacket up and stretches out in the wing chair by the fireplace that faces Lady Tarth’s portrait and Oathkeeper on the adjoining wall. He settles in, but a sense of déjà vu overtakes him and he looks expectantly out to the window and the balcony. For some reason he can’t quite explain, he expects to see someone there: Lady Tarth. He silently laughs at himself for the fancy—probably all the sun he got today combined with the months he spent imagining her life and writing the book. After all, what else could explain his vivid dreams? Still smiling sardonically at himself, he readjusts himself in the chair and falls asleep, a lock of hair falling in his face. 

He doesn’t notice that when he awakes, his errant hair is tucked behind his ear.

* ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ *

His dreams continue to intensify with the passing weeks. Rarely does he pass a night not spent in—or beyond—his historical novel. It begins to bleed into his waking hours when he’s not concentrating on something in particular. New details fill in that weren’t part of the novel: what he thought about while stuck in the cells at Riverrun, the different styles the blacksmith in Kings Landing proposed when he commissioned Brienne’s armor, how his heart fell into his stomach when he’d learned about Joffrey’s death and the Red Wedding, how when he finally joined Brienne in the North, his heart ached to tell her what it held for her.

And then, one day while he's out walking, it clicks. He’s not sure what that final puzzle piece is that brings back his memories of that time, only that suddenly he feels them underlying his very being like a statue’s pedestal, and knowledge of then and now hits him with the unrelenting, methodical, and undeniable force of a tsunami. He is literally brought to his knees, crashing down in front of the lone weirwood tree a few yards from Evenfall, startling a raven into flight. He can barely breathe past the flood of feeling. He picks himself up, looking wildly about.

“BRIENNE!” He roars. “BRIENNE, DO NOT DENY ME! SHOW YOURSELF!”

Nobody’s about, but Jaime is past the point of caring. He can be an eccentric author. He’s filthy rich again. He’s never really cared about the opinions of sheep. It does things to a man’s lungs and boldness, things he’d forgotten.

“BRIENNE!”

Nothing. He waits a moment, listening the siren call of the waves. Still, as much as he sometimes hates his name, he is undeniably Lannister and will not stand for this, especially when he sees the blue of her eyes throwing itself upon the shore all around him, the sound of waves her soft shushes when his night terrors seized him.

“WIFE!!!” 

His shout resounds against Tarth’s bold, broken cliffs. He will not give up. 

“We may not have managed it back then, but you are my wife in my heart. COME,” he commands, a golden, wild-eyed Prospero.

He is both surprised and not surprised when she materializes in front of him, the homeliest but most honorable Ariel that ever was. He simultaneously knows her and is seeing her anew. She is taller, broader, heavier, stronger than him—or would be if she were living. She is just as ugly as her portrait, but he finds her face the most precious thing he’s ever seen. Despite its best efforts, the painting does not do justice to her incredible eyes. And he sees Oathkeeper is at her side—who knew a sword could have ghost? But it makes sense: it was a named blade that she gave life and purpose to. That it followed her into the afterlife is a comfort, that this greatest physical token of his deep esteem, given before he truly understood its depth or what it really meant to either of them, has traveled with her this long. And he finds his anger deflate, so grateful to behold her again, even like this.

Her impossibly blue eyes are resplendent despite their look of concern, worry, and shame. Still, she meets his emerald eyes because she is not craven.

“Brienne,” he breathes, beginning to close the distance. "I remember. I remember _everything_.

“Oh, Jaime,” she whispers, completing it. “I… I…” She tries to touch him and he feels a brief pressure, less than a second of contact. They both stare helplessly at each other, wide-eyed. 

“Brienne, love. I’m so sorry I left you,” and Jaime is crying like he never has never let himself before. Tears are streaming down his face, rivers that run through the beautiful, sharp planes of his face, but then anger rekindles the fire in his eyes and words. “But then you left me! _Me!_ After we’d found each other! It was _so long_!”

“YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG.” Brienne is taken aback by her own vehemence and is instantly repentant. 

“I’m so, so sorry, Jaime. I have no cause to yell at you. None. I just missed you. I missed you so much. I tried my best to be a mother to my people alone. I tried to keep my promise to you, but you still filled my heart and no other presented himself. When I died and you weren’t there…when I did not pass on…I hated myself. Clearly it was a judgment from the Seven—the Maiden whom I served too long, the Mother whom I did not serve at all but should have, the Father whom I denied, the Warrior whom I served too well, the Stranger who claimed me, I don’t know.” 

She pauses. “I had hoped that it meant that you had found some measure of peace. It was my one solace apart from being strongly drawn back here to Tarth, imagining that you’d proved your worth to the Seven, your honor, that they had let you rest.” She sighs. “I betrayed all save the Smith, Crone, and Stranger and deserved my fate.”

“You do _not_ deserve your fate. You are the most honorable person I have _ever_ met! In _any_ of my lives! And now it makes so much sense, why I was not happy: I couldn’t be. I couldn’t find you because you were stuck here. I’m sorry it took me several hundred years to have the sense to come to Tarth, but Brienne, we’ve finally done it. We’ve found each other. We _knew_ each other! I told you I would find you!” His smile is nearly manic in its determination and he is still well snared by her astonishing eyes. 

She remains stunned that he even sees her. “Oh, Jaime.” Her eyes are sad. “I’ve missed you so. But you’re alive. I am not.”

“Speaking of which, you had _no_ right to take my memories from me! NONE. That’s Bolton-level fuckery.”

“You needed to live your life! With someone breathing! That wasn’t going to happen the way things were going!” Brienne knows she has greatly overstepped herself here, but truly believes what she’s saying. She’s so sincere, but so wrong.

“And who the hells are you to decide that for me? Am I such a child? Do you not trust me to evaluate the risks and make the decision for myself? I decide my own future: that’s all I’ve ever wanted and you know it. I decide what pain or sacrifice is worthy and what is not. You were the first person in so long to remind me of my honor and to trust my word. Brienne, I think that’s why I first came to love you. For you to take away my…my agency is… _appalling_.” He pauses, taking a breath. “Even after all these years, you _still_ can’t understand that I would choose you, that I would gladly choose you at any cost to myself and that is my right.”

And Brienne deflates. Ghosts can’t cry, not having water or tear ducts, but he can see the despair writ large on her large face and frame. 

“J—Jaime,” she begins. “You’re right.” And takes a big but completely unnecessary breath before continuing, nearly in a whisper. “There is no excuse other than having seen you so miserable and conflicted for so much of our first life together, I didn’t think I could bear it a second time.” She meets his eyes again, clear and honest like the Evenstar she is, even when wrong, squaring her shoulders. “I am sorry. I had no right, whatever my intentions. I do trust you. I love you. And you deserve better from me.”

“Oh, Brienne,” he sighs and moves a hand to caress her cheek…only to remember he can’t.

“It was unforgivable. I—”

Jaime interrupts her. “It _was_ pretty reprehensible, but,” and here he smiles at her, eyes crinkling just so she nearly dies again in their warmth, “—granted, I’m not _really_ trying to keep score here—considering all the horrible things I’ve done and you’ve mostly not done—if you promise to never do this again, ever, in any lifetime, we'll call it even.”

Brienne shakes her head in wonder at the love of this man. “Jaime, I…I love you so much. But I mean it: you live. You _should live_.”

He shakes his head again, his eyes not having once surrendered hers since she showed herself to him, “I _am_ living! But, Brienne, for the first time since you left me, I am alive. When you thought to ‘spare’ me from you? My sweetest dreams were of you, even if they faded later. I remembered more and more of our time together and I awoke happier the days I dreamt of you. So this _isn’t_ the life we wanted back then. Is it better than a life without each other at all?” He is now pleading. He has pled before for the love of a different woman, but this time, the woman cares and is willing to fight for their love as well.

He continues,

“We have finally found each other again. It only took a few hundred years. I cannot and will not be without you again. Stay. I know it’s not perfect. It wasn’t perfect then, either, remember? But would you trade that imperfect time together for anything else?” His eyes are wild and make her think of lush summer forests, despite him being undeniably a knight of winter.

As always, she is helpless in that unrelenting green gaze. She silently shakes her head no. 

“Then we will find a way. Just as we found a way to weather the winter, the White Walkers, and everything else that tried to keep us apart, we will find a way, even if we have to break the path through the snow drifts ourselves. Together.”

They gaze at each other, hearts full.

“I do have to wonder about whether the Maiden hates me, though: she’s still managed to keep you as one of hers, these hundreds of years later, me unable to do anything about it, much to my chagrin,” he snickers and Brienne cannot do anything but follow, joining her laugh to his own.

* ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ *

Years pass, and soon Peck’s Pia joins them on Tarth. Peck warns her that Jaime has taken to talking and laughing to himself, particularly in his bedroom. Peck thinks it's part of the writing process.

While Jaime Lannister remains the most eligible bachelor on the island (and in the country) despite his many friends. He writes another book, this time, a history of the Kingsgaurd which also sells very well. He remains single until he dies some ten years after moving into Evenfall Hall due to a freak bus accident as he walks along the main street. While people whisper, they had to admit he always seemed happy and content, someone sure in their own worth and love. He was a kind neighbor and a good citizen.

His will leaves a generous bequest to Peck and a handful of meaningful items to Tyrion, Myrcella, and Tommen (none of whom need any more money), but the rest of his rather sizeable estate, including the house, is earmarked to start a non-profit residential home for people trying to make their own way in the world on their own terms. The only requirement is that the portrait of Lady Brienne of Tarth hang alongside Jaime’s portrait by Margaery Tyrell, Oathkeeper and Duncan’s shield mounted above both.

* ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ *

Mr. Varys drives up with the foundation’s new executive and residential directors. “See the wonderful location? Right on a number of different magnificent walking trails, some straight to the beach, and on the bluffs overlooking the ocean. Truly a gem,” He nearly simpers.

While the two directors quietly converse by the car, noting this, admiring the view, Varys looks around and busies himself finding the house keys and opening the front door. He strides into the great room and throws a meaningful look up at both portraits. 

“Now. We’ve both quite finished with all the nonsense, haven’t we?” The house is silent. It feels peaceful, content, even happy…which is pretty impressive for a house this age, if you think about it.

“GOOD,” Varys nods. 

Who would have known that showing that beautiful and stubborn Jaime Lannister this place all those years ago against his better judgment (and experience) would be the best decision he’d ever made for his portfolio? He allows himself to admit had a hunch.

He leans out of the open front door, beckoning the two inside wearing his most sincere smile. “Now, if you’ll just follow me? Let me show you the most _amazing_ sitting room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie plot divergence with gusto! Weirwood on Tarth because why not. :sprinkles fanfic fairy dust: 
> 
> We made it! We survived the angst train and my half-baked attempt to complete a multi-chapter! Thank you, especially those who left kudos and comments—they really do make a difference! 
> 
> For those who have never written but want to give it a shot, I can testify using an established work makes it so much easier to work through the writer’s block. Maybe one day I’ll rise to something original, but in the meantime, I’m just glad I finished this humble project. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.


End file.
